


Into the Black and White

by LittleMissMycroft



Series: Shattered Lines [1]
Category: Black Friday - Team StarKid, Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Cults, Eldritch, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Inaccurate Christianity, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Insanity, John McNamara is gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide, M/M, Mild Gore, Non-Explicit, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, you cannot convince me otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:48:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25131133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissMycroft/pseuds/LittleMissMycroft
Summary: The Black and White are the spaces in between dimensions, a buffer zone of the multiverse. Nothing within it was ever meant to leave. When two men are caught in a fight between eldritch abominations over control of reality, they are forced to step up and lead the fight. But of course, the side of good can always use some help, and that is where the Almighty and her favorite celestial couple comes in.IT IS NOT NEEDED FOR YOU TO HAVE SEEN BLACK FRIDAY TO READ THIS. For people who are here solely for Good Omens, treat this as an AU story that takes place after Armageddon. Everything not of Good Omens is presented in this story with the expectation of it being unknown, so it can read like any AU.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Wilbur Cross/John McNamara
Series: Shattered Lines [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820419
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, readers! This is my first story ever posted on archive, though I do have an account under the same name on ff.net. Feel free to check it out--most of my writings are Harry Potter or Avatar: the Last Airbender based, over there. Back on topic, this story came from the grave mistake of listening to the soundtrack for Black Friday immediately after watching Good Omens. I couldn't help but notice parallels (I mean, Black Friday has a very strong good and bad theme in it), and this story idea assaulted me and would not leave me alone. I churned out the entire thing in under a week. Before we get into it, I have some warnings for you guys:  
> 1\. Chapter one, which sets the stage, is entirely soul-murdering fluff. Everything after that point is relative angst. I’m not sorry.  
> 2\. Crowley and Aziraphale do not show up right away. I promise they exist.  
> 3\. Also, if you have never been exposed to the genre horror-comedy, boy are you in for a ride.  
> With all that aside, I promise it's a good read. I mean, I may be a bit biased but I had a hell of a time writing it. My only hope is that someone out there enjoys this story as much as me. So, without further ado, I give you the first installation in my newly planned series, Shattered Lines.

He and Wilbur had always been drawn to each other. The only problem was, he never knew if either of them was quite sure why. They had met in a park. Not a bad place to meet, as far as meeting places go. John had been freshly twenty-one and excited to go drinking that weekend, sitting on a bench at the park on his college campus in Michigan. He was wearing a tan jacket, decent for that time of year—days were usually warm, if the sun was out—long slacks, and a short-sleeved shirt. The sun shone down on his dark blonde hair, illuminating certain strands and making them gleam a burnt golden color. He was flipping through the notes for his most recent class, his bright, sky-blue eyes scanning the pages. 

A sigh and a groan came from his left as a form dropped itself onto the bench beside him. The figure slumped down, stretching his toes as far as they could go without looking unnatural. A pale hand went up to rake through short, slicked back, stringy-hair. John’s eyes jumped from his textbook to the man beside him in surprise. People usually didn’t sit on two-person benches in the park next to strangers. The strangest thing about it was that something about this just felt... _right_. 

John raked his eyes up and down the stranger. The man seemed to be slightly older than himself, if the college student had to guess. Maybe towards the upper end of twenties rather than lower. He wore clothes that could possibly pass as nice, depending on one’s company, but looked...scruffy, he supposed. Jean button-down shirt under a black jacket. Black jeans. And—were those black converses? With a suit jacket? 

“This seat taken?” came a—well, it wasn’t quite gruff. Just deep, and a little hard around the edges. Brown eyes looked at him. 

“No,” John settled for. What else was he supposed to say? I’m weirded out by your proximity, so please move along? Probably not the politest thing to say. And the seat wasn’t taken. He just might have preferred if it was empty. 

“Good,” came the reply as the stranger faced forward once more and let out a long-suffering sigh, looking out over the stretches of grass interspersed with sidewalks and the occasional tree. 

John tried to get back to reading his notes, but it seemed that now that there was another being present, he was hyper aware of their every move. Every time the man shifted—which wasn’t too often, but often enough in the span of ten minutes that it was noticeable—every time he scratched the tip of his nose or fixed his eyes on another unsuspecting target. The college student sighed and set his notes back onto his lap. 

“So, what’s your name?” 

“Eh?” the stranger replied, jerked out of a staring contest with a tree. John regretted the question. It just came tumbling out of his mouth. But if he couldn’t focus on his work, and it was too _nice_ a day to go back indoors, and this dude didn’t seem to be going anywhere—

“Name? What is it? You _are_ the one who sat next to _me_.” 

“Uh, Wilbur Cross,” the man blinked at him. John bounced the reply around in his head. It was a nice sounding name. Certainly, more poetic than his own. “You?” 

“John McNamara.” 

Wilbur Cross snorted. John crossed his arms and squinted at him. “What? Something funny?” 

“McNamara,” Cross shrugged. “What a mouthful.” 

John didn’t quite scowl, but it was close. 

......... 

“Astronomy, Astrology, Psychics, and Criminal Justice,” a dark yet friendly voice remarked. “What the hell did you want to be when you grow up?” 

John shrugged. He was standing near a tree (once again in the edge-of-campus park), throwing bits of his snack to some persistent chickadees. Wilbur had found him yet again and sidled up to him. This seemed to keep happening. The next time he had appeared after they first met, Wilbur seemed to make a beeline for him and greeted him as though happy to see a familiar face. Ever since then, it was just normal for him to show up in the park and insert himself into John’s quiet time. 

“I never aimed for a specific thing,” he told Wilbur. “I just...took classes that interested me.” 

Wilbur hummed and rubbed his chin, staring down a group of chickadees who skittered away....and then slowly waddled back for more nuts and raisins. John gave him a sideways glance. He wasn’t even sure if the man was a student on the campus—though, it wouldn’t be too surprising if he wasn’t. It was a small college town, so people often just spent time at the park, student or not. 

“Ever considered the military?” 

“No,” John muttered, his mouth twisting. “Not really my thing. Wars, large groups of people, barracks...” 

“Hm,” Wilbur returned. “Well I know of a division or two where you could avoid most of the unpleasantness. Other than the physical requirements, of course.” 

John considered himself to be in decent shape. Still, sometimes he wished he would work out more. 

“In fact,” Wilbur said thoughtfully. “I think it would be right up your alley, considering your interests.” The man seemed to be speaking less of a nebulous section or few of the military and more of a specific branch now. 

“Why do you say that?” 

Wilbur fished in his pocket and pulled out a card that read, _Paranormal Extraterrestrial_ _Interdimensional_ _Phenomena._ Underneath was a recruiter's contact information. John’s brow furrowed. That was...a strange branch of military. He’d never even heard of it. 

“It’s a very small branch consisting of just a large enough investigative group,” his companion explained. “It operates more like an agency than active military—field agents, secrecy, that sort of thing. The term ‘army’ and the ranks are really more honorary than anything. Still, it is _technically_ affiliated with it.” 

John finally took the card and regarded it carefully. “And you think I should join?” 

“Well, strictly speaking you’d join the army, go through basic training, and PEIP would make sure you get into our regimen once you’re old enough. How old are you?” 

“Twenty-one,” he replied. 

“Ah, so not too long then before you’re twenty-three.” 

“How old are _you_?” 

Wilbur Cross gave him a level stare. John didn’t ask again. He found out a year later that the man was four years older than he, and had joined PEIP in an official capacity as soon as he turned twenty-three. He had been brought into the fold in a similar manner to John, only Wilbur and his recruiter didn’t spend near as much time together as Wilbur spent with his recruit. And John did indeed join. He mulled it over for a little while, and then once he was convinced of the legitimacy of the organization and had enough information on its operations, he joined the military. 

Basic training lasted ten weeks. He thought he had been in shape before, but John came to find that he was wrong. He was far from in shape—or, at least—far from where the military wanted him. But as soon as he finished basic, his day job was a paper pusher at PEIP until he was old enough and trained enough to be a field agent. 

And he kept running into Wilbur. 

First it was at the park nearly every day. After a few months, they began spending time at each other's apartments. Then, when he was in basic training, John had been fully prepared to spend ten weeks adrift amongst men he knew nothing of—and maybe make a few friends along the way. He almost snorted his soup out his nose when he caught Wilbur talking to his drill sergeant. 

And then, afterwards, well, they saw each other at work. And went out for drinks afterwards, occasionally one or the other crashing on the couch of whoever’s apartment they had wound up on the particular day. Sometimes other agents would go drinking with them, but most of them kept to themselves—Wilbur hadn’t been wrong. There weren’t many in their division. John had only ever seen nine agents milling about at a time. Occasionally an officer or two, depending on what was happening. 

John liked Wilbur. He was fun, once you knew him further than brooding stares at chickadees at the park. They laughed and drank and gossiped (which was always better when their coworkers _weren’t_ with them), and just generally had a good time. Occasionally they were apart. They still had separate lives—after all, they were just friends—and occasionally Cross was assigned some sort of mission and would disappear for anywhere from days to weeks, but afterwards they would always get together and have drinks. 

They didn’t often get overly inebriated—both found that the other had quite a high tolerance to alcohol—but occasionally John would wake up with only foggy memories of the night before and several videos on his phone of Cross singing drunkenly at a karaoke bar. Cross had the sort of voice that might sound good if his ears weren’t clogged and half his words weren’t slurred together. Luckily Wilbur had no such videos of John (though on more than one occasion John had been told by his elderly relatives when he was younger that he sung like an angel and should go into a music career. Not that that had ever interested him). 

John didn’t think anything of their spending time with each other so often until he caught wind of what some of the other agents thought. Not that they expressed anything to him. John would be lucky if he was considered an intern, even if he was nearly twenty-two at that point. Most of the other agents were thirty to thirty-seven. Therefore, older than him _and_ Wil. John only caught wind of the conversation because he had been about to grab his friend’s paperwork and add it to the stacks in his arms. 

He had reached a hand out for the doorknob, and drew short at the sound of voices. Not wanting to interrupt anything that might be classified and earn him a metaphorical (or possibly literal) boxing on the ears, he leaned against the thin wall of the cubicle and tried not to eavesdrop. 

It was harder than he anticipated. 

“We just go out for drinks,” he heard Wilbur’s voice drift through the wall, sounding as though he was protesting. John could just imagine it: Wilbur lounging back in his chair with his feet propped up on his desk, squawking indignantly over whatever was being discussed. 

“It seems to me that the pair of you mean a lot more than each other than a pair of drinks.” 

John’s brows furrowed. What _were_ they talking about, anyway? If he had to venture a guess, he’d say.... But surely _not_. Surely, they didn’t think that he and Wilbur— 

There was a creak of a chair—John pictured Wil sitting up in his chair, leaning over the desk, and pinning the agent inside with a seething stare. In a seemingly nonchalant tone, came the reply, “I don’t see what the problem is.” 

“Special agents _can’t_ get too close!” The agent sounded quite exasperated. 

There was a creak of a chair again. “You’re not the general. Besides, there’s no rules against agents—” 

“That’s entirely beside the point, and you know that. Aside from the fact that you are his _officer_ , which is highly inappropriate, what if one of you is killed? Or captured? Do the words _emotionally compromised_ mean anything to you?” 

“I think we’re done here.” 

“But—” 

“I’m not discussing this further, and you can’t make me.” 

The fact was, Wilbur Cross had only just been recently made to where he was John’s superior, and they had been drinking together far before that. In fact, they had known each other since _before_ John had joined the army, so Wilbur refused to feel guilty about spending time with his _friend_. 

There was a noise of disbelief and frustration, and John quickly realized that he needed to make it look like he hadn’t just been eavesdropping on two captains. He backed up, and then made his way again to the door, reaching out for the handle. The handle turned and he found himself face to face with Captain Schaeffer. 

“Ma’am,” John said, nodding in her direction. 

Her nostrils flared at the sight of him, but she said nothing. John swallowed and moved into the cubicle, determined to pretend like he hadn’t heard anything. 

......... 

The problem with being drinking buddies, is that it’s hard to tamp down on things that you normally wouldn’t do. That evening, Wilbur insisted that they go out for drinks, and John, still trying to pretend that he hadn’t heard anything that might insinuate that the pair were a couple, was forced to agree. Especially when, after he first tried to decline, Wilbur was asking if he was feeling all right. 

That was how they were found that night in Wilbur’s apartment, stumbling about and complaining loudly about their coworkers. Though, really, it was John doing most of the stumbling and Wilbur doing most of the complaining. 

“She’zz jus’...she’zz jus’ a stuck-up _bitch_...” Wilbur was saying as they let themselves in. “I mean, the wooman things she knows ev-ev'r’thin’...ya know? Can you believe sshe came in to tell me off today about sumthin’ that i'n’t even any of her biznesss?” 

John could believe it, seeing as he heard the whole thing—or, well, enough of it to get the idea. Of course, it took him a good minute to think this, and in the meantime, he was swaying and blinking. 

“You good?” Wil asked, seemed to sober up slightly as he looked at his friend. 

“Yeah, uh, yeah...” John blinked. “I think I sshould go home.” 

Wilbur’s brow furrowed as he took in the man opposite him. “Nah,” he shook his head. “Don’ thing you sshould go home. Not ssure you’d make it, man.” 

John blinked, and swayed a little bit more. He tried to move towards the couch. He nearly fell straight over, seeing as his legs had decided they were suddenly jelly. All the while, he was mumbling, “Ah’ll jus’...Ah’ll jus’ slep ona couch...” 

Unfortunately, Wilbur was between him and the couch. 

“No, man, you sleep on the bed...you’re really out of it, dude,” his superior officer was saying, grabbing him around the middle and sort of herding him backwards toward the door. 

“I like you, Wil,” John grinned, nearly falling over. Wilbur grabbed him under the armpits now, hauling him upwards. “I mean like I reallllllee-ree—uh--luh like you.” 

“Uh, huh,” Wilbur muttered, not really listening as he managed to frog-march his friend through the door. 

“I think you like me too, donya? Sounded like ya did...ya know... _earlier_...” 

“Earlier, right,” Wilbur nodded, not really following. He wished he had been, though, because not much later he found a pair of lips crashing on his own, capturing him and pinning him down the best a drunken man who can hardly stand can do. It was a little wet. Wilbur couldn’t breathe...or think for that matter. He just sort of dropped his friend in a daze—John, who was being held over the bed—fell unceremoniously onto it and was immediately snoring. Wilbur fled to the couch. 

......... 

The first thing John felt when he gained consciousness was regret. It first surfaced in the form of a debilitating headache. He groaned and rolled over, feeling like his head had been cleaved in two. His thought at that was—why did I drink so much? I’ll never drink again in my life. You know, the typical thoughts one thinks when they are hung over. 

He would have liked to lay there all day, and really, the man was considering doing so until he slit his eyes open a crack and realized he wasn’t in his own bed. At that point, he let out a surprised choke and attempted to get up. The only problem was the cocoon of sheets that were entwined around his ankles and caused him to fall onto the floor with a shout and a thump. For a second, John just lay there on the floor, attempting to think. 

The problem with waking up in a strange bed was obvious. He tried to rack his brain to remember if something happened the night previous. The first thing the man did, though, was pat himself down and come to the conclusion that he was fully clothed. Then he tried to peer into the throbbing fog in his head and figure out what had happened. 

Oh. 

Oh, no. 

Yeah, he remembered. He had kissed his superior. Agent John McNamara, had _kissed_ his _fucking superior_. Sure, it was his drinking buddy and—well, John considered Wilbur a friend. God, this was so embarrassing. 

There was nothing else for it. It’s not like John could climb out the window—believe me, his mind went there briefly, but they were in an apartment on the fourth floor of a building. The young man managed to untangle his feet from the side of the bed and staggered to his feet. A fresh wave of throbbing pain seared through his head and he had to pause long enough to be sure he wasn’t going to hurl. Then, he made his way out into the main living space of the apartment. Thankfully, Cross was still asleep on the couch. 

So, John did what any responsible adult would do. He left without another word to the man he had kissed unexpectedly the night before. 

......... 

At first John had held out hope that perhaps Wilbur wouldn’t remember it, but no dice. It became evident he did when there were no further invitations to go out after work. The two of them managed not to mention anything for a few days, but ultimately it was a topic that was very important to the both of them and therefore could not be avoided forever. 

Finally, when it became evident that other agents were noticing something was up—meaning that their work was likely being affected—the two forced themselves to sit down and discuss the topic like men. 

“So....” John trailed off, having no earthly idea of broaching the subject. They had decided to take a break from work and get coffee. They were sitting in a booth next to each other. 

“Yeah,” Wilbur muttered offer his coffee, slumped in his seat. 

“Did you—?” The glorified intern attempted. “I mean—was it all right?” 

“Yeah—I mean, no—no, not all right,” Cross stammered out. John wilted. Wilbur straightened himself up as he tried to appear like a functional captain of the army. “Of course, it was highly inappropriate. I can’t—surely I can’t condone...” 

John was nodding along, acting as though he understood completely. Of course, he did understand. Kissing your superior, it just wasn’t done. The only problem was the small treacherous part of his heart that kept insisting, _No! What did I do wrong? I’ve been waiting forever_... 

“Not that I don’t like kissing,” Wilbur was still rambling. “Men that is. I have no problem—and you’re my friend, you have been long before we were in this situation, and— _Oh, fuck it all_ —” 

And suddenly John found himself in the reverse position of understanding exactly Wilbur had felt that night. A warm mouth on his and a mind screeching to a halt in confused surprise. The only thing John could think was that _God, this felt right_. 

It felt just as right as Wilbur sitting on his left in the park, as right as watching Wilbur have staring contests with the clouds. It was like a piece of his soul had been slotted together, a piece he hadn’t even realized he had been missing. And it was _wonderful_. The man felt like he was bathed in warm light, the sun shining out from his very heart, and as his friend pulled away, John felt as though he were positively glowing. And Cross was looking at him with an uncharacteristically fond look on his face that had John’s insides squirming and beaming and screaming and laughing. 

Needless to say, starting with that day, something in their friendship had inevitably shifted. Luckily for them, their current general and commander-in-chief really seemed like both of them. Wilbur kept getting promoted, first to major and then to lieutenant colonel. John was promoted to being an official Agent as soon as he was twenty-three. 

And not much really changed in the relationship between Wilbur Cross and John McNamara. At least, not at first. They were still friends. They reinstated their after-work drinking parties almost immediately. The only difference was...well, they kissed quite a bit. It was something new for the pair to explore with each other and they enjoyed it to its fullest. For the most part, however, there were no public displays of affection— _especially_ at work. They might have done other things, too, but really, that’s up to the reader to speculate on. The main important factor was that now, John and Wil were _close_. They were closer than either of them had ever been to another person before, which felt strange in a good way. 

Cross would still be sent on missions. Whenever he returned, the time apart would make the pair both want to just...be in each other’s company. So, often John would end up spending the night at Wilbur’s apartment—that didn’t happen too often, of course. The pair just...became inseparable. Two peas in a pod. An advanced form of the friendship they had started out with. 

All of this was why John found himself moving into—well, he didn’t like the term boyfriend, it made him feel like he was twelve— _Wilbur's_ apartment. His own apartment was being closed. The plans were to tear the complex down and build something else on top of it (a golf course, or something). It made sense. The complex was a run-down eyesore. The main reason John had been living there was because he was young and it was affordable. 

And, of course, Wil had said, “You can always crash at my place.” 

“Really?” John asked. “For how long?” 

“Indefinitely. We can split the rent,” his— _Wilbur_ —nodded. “It’d certainly be easier to pay, that way.” 

And that sparked a new train of thought in John McNamara. It stewed for a little while as he guessed and contemplated, but finally the man came out and asked one night, “What are we?” 

They were laying in a single bed together, side by side, flush against one another when he asked. The question had been bothering him. He didn’t know what to call Wilbur. They were certainly more than friends, but they had never discussed it. 

Wil hummed softly and said after a moment, “I don’t know. What would you like to be?” 

John’s mind immediately went to what he _would_ like to be. Married. He was an adult with a paying job and taxes to pay. He knew all about the benefits that having a typical family unit would give. And he thought about living with Wilbur for the rest of his life—to promise to never leave his side—and it was so moving that he almost couldn’t stomach it. But he didn’t exactly know where Wilbur stood when it came to commitment. And the biggest factor against this train of thought... 

It was currently 2007, and same-sex marriage was against the law in the state of Michigan. 

“John?” 

The man in question startled and realized he had been silent for too long. Wil was looking at him with a hint of concern and alarm, no doubt wondering why he had gone so quiet at the question. John almost didn’t want to reply. He wanted to say, “Forget it,” and roll over and forget this conversation ever happened. But another part of him thought about how he and Cross seemed to operate on the same wavelength, both ultimately drawn to the other in an irresistible pull. He thought about how him kissing the man had gone down, and then he decided to just go for it. 

“Well, really, I’d like to be married.” He was met with silence, though not the sort that would have made him nervous. “You understand the problem now, right?” 

The dark room was silent a little longer, and then finally Wil said softly, “Yes. I understand. Not exactly legal, is it? Of course, there’s always a solution.” 

John’s mouth went dry. At what, he wasn’t quite sure. “What?” he asked. 

“Marry ourselves,” Wil responded. 

John’s brow furrowed. “What—?” 

“I mean, like, the opposite of having someone marry us. We can promise to never abandon each other—you know, just between us—” _And God_ , a part of John’s mind chuckled. “And then we’d be married. Basically.” 

“I like that idea,” John mused. 

“And, you know, we might not be seen in the eyes of the law as husbands, but we’ll always be partners.” 

_Partners_. The word had multiple meanings to them that all applied. It fit. John rolled over, satisfied, and closed his eyes. They could make all the promises to each other they wanted as the days went by—they'd have the rest of their lives, after all. 

......... 

Agent John McNamara never quite realized the full scope of what he had gotten himself into. While still technically an intern, he never heard much or saw much of what they dealt with. Even if he saw things in paperwork, it was in a detached sort of way, where he didn’t quite think about exactly what he was reading. But after he was old enough to be a field agent, he soon found out what he had been missing. 

Of course, he had a few cases, once he was promoted. He and Wil were made official partners by their general, who had a feeling that they would work most efficiently when together. Wilbur was his mentor, meant to show him the ropes for a while. The few times John did anything—things to warm him up—the pair would go and do stake-outs for paranormal activity or the like. Every stake-out came up fruitless. John gathered from his peers that it was rare to find something that was truly out-of-this-world phenomena. 

The first real case—where they were assigned details, reports, and an active role—turned out to be that something. He and Wilbur had been sitting in their shared cubicle. Wilbur’s feet were propped up on the desk and John was at a side desk, sitting up in his chair and typing up a report for their most recent futile stake-out. That was when the general came in with a very fat folder. 

“Colonel,” he announced to the room, slapping the folder down in front of Wilbur. Cross had only just recently been promoted again. “Got a new case for ya.” 

Wil flipped the manila folder open and John rolled his chair over to the desk so he could get a closer look. Wilbur, flipping through pages of information, asked, “What is it?” 

“Reports of a woman spookin’ out people.” Wilbur gave the general a blank look. “Best way of puttin’ it, son. Most people call her a druggie and be done with it, but we’ve had a few calls from concerned citizens over the things she been sayin’. Want you two to look into it. See where the case goes.” 

“Got it,” Wilbur said curtly, flipping the small file closed and getting to his feet, reaching for his black suit jacket. John reached for his own sand colored trench coat. 

The pair made their way out and drove to the address in the file searching for a Ms. Foster. It wasn’t very promising when they showed up at a run-down hovel and found the door answered by a four-year-old. The child was grimy with wild, shoulder length hair and she was staring at them with wide brown eyes. 

Wil looked to John as if saying, “ _Well? This is your go.”_

_“_ Uhh, can we speak to your mom?” John asked. 

The girl stared a little longer. Then, she called over her shoulder, “Mooo _ooooo_ m! Some weird guys are here foya!” 

There was a shuffling sound and moments later, a doe-like pair of brown eyes were blinking at them in bewilderment. They first focused on John, and then Cross. When the woman’s eyes landed on Cross, she let out a scream and pulled the young girl back. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, we’re not here to hurt anyone! We just wanted to ask you a few questions!” John exclaimed, moving to stand in front of Wilbur in the hopes that the woman might calm down. She seemed to become aware of herself after a moment and gestured them inside. As she opened the door wider, John finally got a good look at her. The woman was pregnant, and she wore shabby clothes that smelled strongly of poor liquor and cigarettes. John’s heart panged slightly as he looked at the four-year-old girl who spent her life in this sad place. 

They were shown into a living room that was lit by a single, dim bulb. There were piles of clothes and empty bottles and trash littering the room. The woman had the pair sit on a crumbling loveseat, and she sat in a chair across from them. 

“Sorry,” she said, blinking at them. She seemed tired and slow. “I don’t know what came over me.” 

“That’s alright,” John said reassuringly. “We just wanted to ask you a few questions.” He looked questioningly to Wilbur, who thus far hadn’t briefed him on the contents of the manila folder. 

“Right,” Wil nodded. “I was wondering if you could tell me...” He looked down at his notes. “What the significance of the phrase ‘Black and White’ is to you.” 

It was the phrase that had come up most frequently in the ramblings they had written down from the woman. It seemed to strike a chord in her, for her eyes grew impossibly wide. She went as white as a sheet and began rocking slightly as she mumbled, “Black and White...eyes of a snake...don’t go...don’t go...” 

John looked at Wil and found himself meeting the man’s brown eyes. Wil’s brow was furrowed and his eyes were dark. 

“We’re not going anywhere,” John attempted to say soothingly. 

The woman’s eyes fixed on him and she began rocking more. Hands came up to grip at the sides of her head, mussing her hair as she looked at him, and she squeaked, “Head of a bear...head of an owl...head of a lamb.... flaming heart _...Ah!”_ She cried out as if in pain. Her nails were digging into her scalp now. She shut her eyes tight and slowly stopped rocking. Her hand groped for something and a second later she pulled a bottle out of the cushions of her chair and began guzzling its contents. 

John leaned closer to his partner and whispered in his ear, “Do you think we can get anything out of her?” 

“We can try,” Wilbur replied quietly. “This doesn’t seem to be nothing, though.” 

After she had drunk half the bottle, the woman finally opened her eyes and looked at them blearily. “What did you want?” she asked. 

“What was it that just happened to you?” Wilbur asked, his pen poised over his notepad. 

“Oh, oh, I’m sorry, I—” the woman started. “Sometimes everything gets too much. It’s like I can see too much and it—it hurts.” 

“You see something no one else can see? Like a creature?” 

“Not creature,” the woman said darkly. “Place. Black and White.” 

They questioned her a little further, managing to get a little more out of her, but it seemed like her mind wasn’t entirely there. Wilbur took notes feverishly the whole time. Finally, the pair stood and managed to make their way out of the house. They passed the little girl once more, who stood in the doorway of a bedroom, staring at them. 

“What’s your name?” John asked her politely. 

“Alexandra,” the girl replied. “Did you fix Mom?” 

“Why do you think she needs fixing?” John wondered. 

“She doesn’t listen to me,” the girl replied. “She’s broken. Usually I can fix broken things but...” 

The girl trailed off and John smiled indulgently. “You can fix things?” he asked. “You must be very handy.” He imagined she probably pasted things together with tape with a touch of child-like crookedness. 

“Watch,” she said. She picked a bottle up off the ground and threw it back down hard. Both men yelped and jumped backwards, protesting. A moment later, the bottle seemed to stitch itself back together and spring back into her hand. The two agents gaped at her. 

Wilbur crept up behind John and nodded towards the door over his ear. 

“Let’s go,” he said quietly. 

“Yeah,” John said faintly. The only thing he could think of was that something seemed very odd and very significant about what that girl had just done. 

The pair packed out of there and made their way back to headquarters. Their time became consumed with this case, which just seemed to be getting odder and odder. The scientists theorized that if the woman kept talking about a place, seeing things that others couldn’t, that perhaps it was some sort of alternate dimension. They thought that maybe she was seeing a bleed-through between their own reality and an alternate one. No one could explain how that related to a child stitching a bottle back together seamlessly. Without touching it. 

John was uncertain of the danger level of what they were investigating—the whole purpose of their organization was to look into things no one else wanted to, to keep danger away from the public. They often went chasing alien sightings or going after things that seemed dangerous. He had been unsure if a crazy woman was dangerous at all before they had met her. After hearing her rambles, the man had a foreboding sense of doom. That whatever she saw was coming for them and would leave no man standing. Maybe that’s why people had called 911 over this woman. 

So, they kept looking into it, trying to find out anything. Some time passed, and things kept getting stranger. All of it centered on the town the woman hailed from: Hatchetfield. People kept reporting ghosts, glowing lines, melting walls, and people disappearing. 

Because Wilbur and John had opened the case, they kept being sent back out again and again to find out what happened to people who had gone missing and question people who otherwise saw odd things. There was the distinct moment they had talked to something who claimed that the ground had cracked open and when the pair went to the place, there was a suspicious lack of open ground. If it weren’t for one fact, they might have written it all off as the usual bogus. 

Everything seemed to be concentrated around one part of Hatchetfield. It was towards the outside of town—an old, abandoned mall, complete with a parking garage. No one could really explain why it had been abandoned, or why it had just been left there. John and Wil checked it out without finding anything, but something about the place made John feel very uneasy. 

Two weeks passed of investigations, and finally PEIP’s scientists were sent out to see what they could make of the place. They ended up returning, claiming that some reading on some thing or other confirmed that there was a weak spot between dimensions in that mall. 

John McNamara had no idea how that was the sort of thing you reasonably find out with science. 

Still, the organization continued looking through it. Agents were sent back and forth and scientists set up permanent camp in the abandoned mall in Hatchetfield. Privately, John continued wondering about the pair that had led them to all this—the woman and her little girl. He did some research of his own and told Wilbur that he thought the girl had ESP. Wil shrugged and nodded, willing to believe anything if his partner had a good gut feeling about it. 

Not too long later, Wil and John were called back to Hatchetfield. The team of scientists reported that they had been having trouble—the same things that had been reported for the area—and were worried for their safety. A whole slew of agents suited up (John wondered if it was all the agents they had) and made their way over. 

Often John forgot he worked for a military organization. Usually they operated more like an organization and less like the military. They would wear nice, civilian clothes—like what you’d expect a spy to wear. This was the first time since joining that John had been fitted with a bullet proof vest, guns, and a beret. (Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last). He was just grateful for their annual training, so that he actually remembered how to hit a target with his bullets. 

As they walked down the empty halls of a mall, a scurrying scientist briefed them. 

“We think we finally had a break through,” the man said. “It was in our reports to the general. Where is he?” 

“Otherwise tied up, at the moment,” Wilbur replied. Being the only colonel present, he was in charge of the operation. “You report to me, soldier. Explain.” 

“Well, I don’t know exactly what we did. We built this instrument in hope of registering what was different here, and it somehow created some sort of....window. Just hovering above the instrument. We sent a probe in and it came back with an empty video feed—just an expanse of blackness—and the information that there was air to breathe. We had just pulled the probe back when everything started going haywire. Lights flickering, the walls seemed to be melting, and then one of our men was just...dragged into it.” 

By this point they had come to a halt by a closed door. 

“Dragged?” Wilbur asked. “By what?” 

“I don’t know, it was like this glowing green light. It grabbed him and pulled him backwards into the portal.” 

“What are you gonna do?” John asked Wil quietly. He seemed to think for a moment. 

“I’m going to go in after him,” the colonel said firmly. “Your man, what was his name?” 

“Michael Brown, sir.” 

“Okay,” Wilbur nodded, and then he was off firing orders. “I’m not quite sure what we’ll find behind this door, but it might be hostile. I need a team of men outside with your guns ready. If anything leaves this room that is not human, shoot it. I need a team inside the room, ready to fire as well. I am going in alone. I don’t want to risk anyone else, and we don’t know what’s in there. If I don’t come back out in...let’s say ten minutes, switch off the machine and do not turn it on again. All clear?” 

“Yes, sir!” 

John was put in the team that went inside the room, and bit down his nerves. He was just behind Wilbur and the scientist, who were at the front of the group. The door was opened, and they found a room full of flickering lights and machinery. Everything was washed in a green light, which was coming from a very bright hole in reality that hung in the middle of the room. 

They all filed into the room, John joining the other soldiers as they lined the walls and trained their guns on the pulsing air. The scientist went to stand over by the machine, and without a hint of hesitation, Wilbur Cross walked into the light.


	2. Chapter Two

\- - - 

**The Black and White**

\- - - 

_DRAMATIS PERSONNAE_

SUPERNATURAL BEINGS 

Wiggly (an Eldritch Abomination, formerly Gatekeeper) 

Webby (an Eldritch Being and Gatekeeper) 

Aziraphale (an Angel, formerly Principality, formerly Cherubim of the Eastern Gate) 

Crowley (an Angel who did not so much as fall as saunter vaguely downwards) 

THOSE AFFECTED BY THE BLACK AND WHITE 

Wilbur Cross (also known as Wiley, servant of an evil eldritch god) 

John McNamara (a General in the US Army [special unit P.E.I.P], a red-blooded American) 

Lex Foster (a Girl with Strange Powers) 

Hannah Foster (a Girl with an Imaginary Friend) 

Ms. Foster (a Harrowed Prophet) 

TOWNSPEOPLE 

Tom Houston (A Teacher and a Father) 

Frank Pricely (Blasphemer; Avid Salesman) 

Ethan Green (A Very Supportive Boyfriend) 

Linda Monroe (Divine Prophet; Mother) 

Becky Barnes (Protector and Warrior) 

Sherman Young (Children’s Toys Enthusiast) 

Gary Goldstein (Attorney at Law) 

THE GOVERNMENT 

Howard Goodman (Democratically Elected President of the United States of America. A Status Quo Democrat) 

Bob Maurice (Vice President) 

Secretary of State (the Secretary of State) 

Secretary of Defense (the Secretary of Defense) 

Also featuring A Man in a Hurry, Mildly Peeved Mega, and a Cineplex Teen

\- - - 

Alexandra Foster hated her life. Stuck with a useless mother who had no job and was barely sober enough to be coherent, forced to drop out of school to get a job so she could support herself and her sister, stuck with the world’s most obnoxious man-Karen for a boss...it was enough to make her wish she could just get out—go somewhere and be famous. That was the plan, anyway, and it was a plan that had been in the making for _years_. 

Once, Lex had been a little girl who thought she could fix the world. As she grew older, however, the world was suddenly less magical. She had to fight to survive, clawing her way through life. If she was being honest with herself, the girl knew exactly when the shift happened—it was the day her sister was born. But really, Lex could never bring herself to blame Hannah. It was their mother’s fault. Their mother, who became less strange with the birth of her second child, but still somehow more useless and violent. 

It was why Lex was determined to take her sister as far away as they could get—the other end of the country sounded nice. Somewhere warmer, somewhere they could start a new life...and the plan had finally taken form once a new fad had been born. Lex was, for once, grateful for her job at Toyzone—otherwise, she might have missed what she believed to be the best opportunity of her life. 

So, that was why she was standing outside Toyzone, smoking a cigarette as she steeled herself for what was to come. 

“’Scuse me, miss, do you think it’s okay for me to park here?” 

Lex looked up from the ground in surprise to see a familiar head poking out of a car door. She hadn’t even noticed the car pull up, but wasn’t shocked, seeing as it wasn’t really a place cars usually pulled up to; being a back door to the mall. 

“Uh, yeah it says ‘ _No parking at any time_ ,’” Lex replied as the man climbed out of the sedan and closed the door, “but I’m sure the loading trucks can just park across the street. Does that work for you?” 

“Yeah that’s perf—” The man finally looked up and noticed who he was speaking to. “Lex?” 

Lex smiled at her former high school teacher, and said, “Hey, Mr. Houston.” 

“What are you _doing_?” he asked, making his way from the car over to where Lex was standing. 

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m having a bud before my shift.” 

He fixed her with a concerned look—the typical one an adult gives when you are making a bad life choice—and asked, “Does your mother know you smoke?” 

“Yeah, she lets it slide ‘cause I score her weed,” Lex replied nonchalantly, flicking the cigarette to the ground with two fingers. 

“Weed? Lex, I thought you were _done_ with all that,” Mr. Houston sighed, sounding sad. Typical. “Last year you were back in school, you were on top of your classes.” 

“I was hardly valedictorian,” she snarked back with a roll of her eyes. 

“Well, you were doing all right in my class—” 

“Yeah, _shop class_ where they give you an A for not chopping off your finger!” 

“No, if you show up and you put in the effort,” the man argued, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “I’m not gonna hold a little accident like that against ya.” 

“Yeah, well, shop class was the only thing holding up my GPA, so when they canceled shop class because the teacher had a family emergency, they flunked me. So, I decided to follow the example of my _favorite teacher_ and never come back. How does it feel to be a role model?” 

He swallowed, his eyes blinking a few times as they flickered all about the loading area. “That’s not a very fair thing to say.” 

Lex scowled. “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” she dismissed, intent on changing the subject. “School is supposed to prepare you for the work place, and I already have a job. Or is stock girl at Toyzone a waste of my 'endless potential'?” She made air quotes as she spoke the last phrase, sass written all over her face.

“Toyzone?” Mr. Houston blinked at her, suddenly straightening up.

“What, you got a problem with retail?” Lex snapped. She was all too used to adults judging her. They had no right, anyway—it wasn’t like people like Mr. Houston were in any way her guardians. Her own mother let her do whatever she liked. So, why did the rest of the world have to be so nosy? 

“No!” Mr. Houston instantly protested. “No, no, no I think Toyzone is a great place for you to work. In fact, I’m proud of you Lex. I always thought you had a great work ethic.” 

Lex eyed him suspiciously at the sudden change in tone, but shrugged and muttered, “Yeah, well, if I don’t support my drinking habit, who will?” 

The former teacher paused, staring at her for a long moment as if unsure how to react to that ( _good_ ), and then said in a dismissive tone, “Yeah, that’s funny Lex. Listen, I’m actually here to get a Christmas present for my son. It’s a Tickle-me-Wiggly. I didn’t realize so many people were trying to do the same thing, so do you think there’s uh—you think there’s anything you can do?” 

“What, like set one aside for you?” 

“Yeah,” he nodded fervently. He didn’t seem to notice her less-than-serious tone, in the slightest. 

“Yeah, like put your name on it, put it under the counter, and just screw over hundreds of people that got here before you?” 

He put a hand on her shoulder. “ _That_ would be _great_ ,” Mr. Houston said. It was like he was immune to sarcasm. 

“Yeah, well you know? I could,” the teen responded. “But that would be violating company policy, and everyone’s telling me to be more responsible lately, so I’m gonna go with them on this one. Oh, hey, but I got an idea! You can get in line like everybody else!” 

She pulled her hood up over her head, ignoring the way it totally fucked with her hair, and then added, “And I’d hurry up if I were you, the line’s already backed up to Nordstrom.” 

“Nordstrom?” He asked, turning to the road in question to peer at a long line of people. “Oh, no, no, no, no! Ah, shit! Listen, Lex, I gotta run!” 

“What, you just gonna leave your car here?” 

“Let ‘em tow it!” He sounded slightly hysterical. 

“All right.” Lex shrugged. The man seemed to be on the edge of a mental breakdown, but it was still nice to see him. “Merry Christmas!” 

“ _Yeah, Merry Christmas, Lex!_ ” he shouted as he ran, sounding very much like he didn’t think it was a very Merry Christmas in the slightest. He had almost gotten the hang of sarcasm. 

With her source of entertainment rounding a corner, Lex shoved her hands into her pockets and made her way back to Toyzone’s back door that she had wedged open with her pack of cigarettes to keep it from locking her out. The teen wound her way through the shelves of toy store's storage room to find a man with her boss at the counter—a large crate sitting between them. He must have come in some other way, because there had been no truck out back. 

“Now, I just need your John Hancock on the dotted line,” the man was saying. Lex wrinkled her nose at him. He had rat-like features—a down-turned nose and a crooked jaw—and dark, slicked back hair. Even worse was the fact that the man was wearing _triple denim_. He had on a denim shirt, underneath a jean jacket, on top of a good-old pair of Levi’s. That man needed help. 

“Ah, with pleasure,” Frank simpered, taking the clipboard from the stranger and signing with gusto. 

“So that’s them, huh?” Lex asked, taking in the box on the floor and making the logical assumption that it was the famed new toy that was to be sold on that particular Black Friday. 

“Yup, our own little miracle on 34th street,” her boss sighed blissfully, handing the clipboard back over to the man with the box. “Tell me Lex, do you know why they call it Black Friday?” 

“Uh, because it comes after Thursday?” she asked, not really knowing or caring about the origins of the world’s worst holiday. 

Frank stared at her. She could practically see a vein popping out on his forehead as he said sarcastically, “ _Cute_.” He took a deep breath, and then launched back into the topic. “They call it Black Friday because it’s the day in America when most retailers go from being in the red, _losing_ money, to being in the black, _making_ money.”

“Well, friend-o,” the man said, tucking his pen into his pocket and then tapping the box. “I have a feeling these babies are gonna take you so far into the black that you ain’t never comin’ back.” 

With those strangely ominous words, he fixed Frank with a deadpan stare. The store manager stared back at him, his expression frozen on his face as though Frank was quite unsure of what to do with himself. He tilted his head, trying to figure out what was happening. The stranger tilted his own head in return, not blinking, still just staring. Lex watched, unsure of what to do herself. The whole thing was very weird. Lex could only conclude that this dude was messed up. 

Then, suddenly, her boss began laughing it off—sounding very awkward and stilted—and the man laughed with him. The forced laughter turned into real laughter (Lex had heard once that it was impossible to fake laugh for a decent stretch of time without making you laugh, and wondered how true it was), and Frank said as he caught his breath, “Ah, I sure hope so.” 

“Oh, you are gonna make a _killin’_ ,” Creepy man said , making a slicing motion across his neck . As he continued, he pointed to each word on the box, which read _Uncle Wiley's Toys._ “That is an Uncle Wiley Toys guarantee.” 

And with that, the delivery man seemed to be finished. He grabbed up his clipboard and sauntered off. Lex watched him, wondering why he wasn’t pushing a dolly. Did he just...carry crates full of ugly dolls from the front of the mall into Toyzone...? 

The man made it all the way past her, and she noticed his head turned as he did so. Then, he came to a halt and said in a deep voice, “Well, well. Hello naughty list.” 

Lex’s mouth fell open in indignation as he winked and clicked his tongue at her. “ _Gross_!” she exclaimed, turning to see if Frank would actually be a decent person and say something, but no dice—the man was hugging a box. By the time she turned back, the man was gone.

“Uh, excuse me, Alexandra,” Frank said, his voice slightly muffled as his head was laying on a box of dolls. “I don’t mean to bother you or anything, but do you think I can see some hustle out of you on this, the most important shift of your life? On this, the holiest day in America for humble merchants across this _fine_ nation.” 

“If it’s a holy day, do I get time and a half?” the teen asked, shoving her hands into her pockets. Boy, would she like to get out of here. Luckily, this should be the last time she should ever have to deal with the man. 

“You know, you’ve got a real attitude problem, Alexandra,” her boss snapped in reply. “You’re snippy to customers, your no-good boyfriend’s always hanging around—You'd think a dropout with a record would thankful to have a job. You want to end up like your mother? No prospects and two kids she can’t take care of?” He made his way over to her as he berated her, stopping a little too close. “She dropped your sister on her head as a baby, or whatever, but you? Look what a fine job she’s done with you...” 

He had been lifting up her jacket, straightening out her vest, and it made Lex feel a little uncomfortable. She moved swiftly away from the man and said defensively, “Look, Frank, you want me to unload these or what?” 

“It would be nice if our hot ticket item is on the shelves _when we open!_ ” 

“Fine!” she came to a stop at the box, reaching for the box cutters that were kept under the counter. 

“ _Thank you!_ ” came the retort, and Frank was making his way away, heading towards an aisle. His head popped back out after a moment, and he asked, blinking at her, “Uh, is there anything you’d like to say to me?” 

She sighed in annoyance and paused, the knife halfway down the strip of tape. “Thank you?” 

“No, no, no,” the man scolded, sounding like he was talking to a two-year-old. “Try to keep up, Alexandra. I say thank you and you say...?” 

“You’re welcome,” she grunted, wondering what would happen if she bashed him over the head with this box full of Wiggly dolls. It had to weigh a decent amount, right? 

“See? She _can_ be taught!” Frank clapped, his hands moving in a circle, and disappeared down the aisle. She waited, listening, until she was sure he was gone. Lex felt a rush of adrenaline flood her as she opened the box, and a smirk lifted her face. 

“We’ll see who’s laughing by the end of the day,” she said. “We’ll see who’s laughing...” 

She pulled out a doll and looked at it—a fluffy, green monster with wide eyes. She regarded him, and then said as if in a daze, “Hi, Wiggly. I’m Lex. So you’re what all the fuss is about.” 

“Tickle my belly-well,” came the animatronic voice of the doll. 

“Cute,” she smiled briefly, patting its stomach. 

“That tickles,” came the voice of the doll. “I think we’re Going to be Very Good friendy-wends.” 

“Yeah, I think so, too,” Lex said quietly, hefting the doll in one hand and closing the box again with the other. “You’re gonna help me out a lot more than you know.”

She stuffed the toy into her backpack, and was in the process of zipping it when a voice made her jump.

“Halt, security, we’ve got a shop lifter!” She turned and saw her boyfriend standing in the doorway, pointing at her with a teasing smile on his face. “Drop the doll!”

“Jesus Christ, Ethan, you fucking asshole!” she exclaimed, running over to him. 

“Eyy! Come on, it was just a goof.” He grinned and hugged her, allowing her to stand with her arms wrapped around him. 

It only took her seconds to pull away and ask, “Uh, where’s my sister?” 

“Oh no, Hannah?” Ethan asked, his face going slack for a second. Lex fixed him with an unimpressed look. “Is that what you’ve been telling me for the past four weeks, to pick up your kid sister? Oh, I must’ve forgot cuz I'm so stupid.”

He went back over to the doorway and reappeared, pulling the pig-tailed thirteen-year-old girl along. “She’s right over here, and let me tell you she is being a little snot today. Come on, do I gotta put a leash on you? Like a dog or my cousin Oliver—?” 

“Okay don’t pull her!” Lex fussed. She gestured Hannah over and had her sit on a crate of toys. The teen smoothed back her sister’s hair and asked, “Hey, Banana. Is today a good day or a bad day?” 

Hannah blinked at the tiled floor. “Bad day.” 

“Really?” Lex asked in a conciliatory tone. “’Cause I think today’s a good day. You know my backpack? The one with the pins on it? Well, today, _you_ get to wear my backpack!” 

She wiggled her backpack at the younger girl, who crossed her arms and retorted, “No.” 

“See what I mean?” Ethan asked from where he had leant against a shelf. “It’s been this. _All day_.” 

Lex shot him a look, and then leaned over to look at Hannah’s pale face. “Why don’t you wanna wear my backpack? That makes me sad. Do you think I have a bad backpack?” 

“I’m not supposed to,” the girl said reluctantly, blinking at the ground again. 

“Who says you’re not supposed to?” Lex asked in a concerned tone. 

“Webby.” 

Ethan scoffed. “ _Great_ , now we’ve got to talk to the imaginary spider from outer space.” 

“What does Webby say?” Lex asked the girl placatingly.

Hannah continued to stare at the ground, and her eye began to twitch. “Bad blood,” she said. “Cross...Black and White?” 

There was the briefest moment of silence as the rest of the room wondered if they were actually hearing English, and the moment was quickly broken by Ethan asking, “Can you translate? I don’t speak crazy.” 

“She’s not crazy, she’s creative!” Lex argued, getting up from her crouch and attempting to put the backpack on her sister as she said, “Come on, Hannah, I don’t have all day.” 

“ _No_!” Hannah dissented emphatically, forcibly pushing the backpack off before Lex could get her arms through the loops. 

“Okay, let me try,” Ethan finally said, putting himself between Lex and her sister. Lex stepped back and held up her hands in a gesture of surrender and the dark-haired teenage boy fixed the young girl with a serious look. 

“All right, Banana split,” he said calmly. “You see this hat? It was gifted to me by a great warrior—” Behind him, Lex sniggered into her hand at the cock-and-bull story he had suddenly pulled out of his ass. Ethan sent her a withering stare and an admonishment of, “Don’t you fuckin’ laugh.” 

He paused, regaining his bearings, and then turned to the little girl again. “This hat has been imbued with the power of gray skull to ward off all dark magic, bad blood, backpacks, any fuckin’ thing. Now, I can lend you this hat—just for today—and while it's on your head, welp, nothing can harm you.” 

He held it out to her, and she looked at him with an open face, her crossed arms relaxing slightly as she asked, “Honest?” 

“Cross my heart,” he said softly. “Hope to die.” 

The moment was broken by the boy swaggering over to Lex, hugging her around the middle, and saying, “I’d make a great dad, I’m just sayin...” 

“Okay,” Lex laughed, patting him on the head. She pulled away and grew serious. “You're gonna watch her till noon, till I get off, and then we're out of this _fucking_ town. Did you get in contact with the buyer?” 

“Oh, yeah about that,” the boy said, straightening up. Lex grew concerned for a moment, especially when he followed it up with, “Uh, there's been a little complication. So originally, we talked about five. Well, word gets around, and before I know it there is a bidding war for this thing. And uh, we got somebody willing to pay _seven_.” 

“Seven _hundred_ for a fucking _doll_?” she asked, flabbergasted. 

“ _No_. Seven _thousand,_ ” he retorted in a grave sort of voice that knew exactly how good this was for them. 

“Seven _thousand_ ?” Lex squeaked. “Seven, fucking thousand _dollars_? We're set! We're set!” She threw herself on her boyfriend, hugging him and practically hanging from him in her excitement. Then, she turned to her sister with a wide grin. “Hannah, do you know what this means?” 

Hannah blinked, expression hopeful again. “California?” 

“Cali-fucking-fornia!” 

Finally, her life was looking up. 

......... 

It was a cold, winter’s day in Michigan on the twenty-seventh of November. As a line of bystanders backed up past Nordstrom, a pair of heels went _click, click, click_ down the pavement. It was a woman and she was talking loudly as she walked. 

“I told you to wait in the car, Gerald,” she was saying. She had pristine blonde hair that fell to her shoulders, tucked neatly under a black fur cap. The woman wore a white sweater, and a black fur cape to match the hat. She held a glittering, golden iphone X up to her ear with perfectly manicured fingers. 

“No, you know full well why you’re not allowed inside!” she argued. “Because you’re not to step within a thousand feet of a _Ciiii_ nnebon, Gerald! No, I don’t _believe_ you just want to smell them.” 

As the woman said this, she drew near to the front of the line. She had been forced to walk to the doors of the mall from the back of the parking lot (the horror), for the sole reason that the parking on that particular day was an overcrowded nightmare. And she could see people stretching all the way around the block. “Oh, my God look at this line,” she stated. “No! Gerald, keep the car running. I don’t want to come back in ten minutes to a _cold car_.” 

The woman made her way towards the front of the line—not the very front, that would just be rude—and found a nice enough looking young man. 

“Excuse me, sir, what do scissors do?” she asked, making a cutting motion with two fingers in front of him.

The man looked at her in utter bewilderment, and then finally settled on, “Huh?”

“Hello there,” she said, giving him an award-winning smile (literally). “Linda Monroe, president of the Hatchetfield boating society? Or perhaps you know my husband? Doctor Monroe of Inner-Beauty _Rrrhinoplasty_? I was wondering if you could just step on back, and I could slide right in front of you?” 

“No,” he said emphatically, stepping forward slightly. “I’ve been waiting here all night.” 

“Hm,” she hummed, rummaging in her black designer purse. “And I’m sure your time is _precious_ to you, which is why I’m willing to compensate you...” She trailed off as she pulled out a check book and began scribbling. 

“Look, uh, ma’am I can’t just let you cut i—oh!” She handed him the check and the man's eyebrows raised at the figure. He smiled wide at her and took a step back, gesturing her forward like a gentleman as he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Monroe, Merry Christmas to you!” 

“Thanks!” she smiled in return, taking her spot in line. 

“Excuse me—” 

Linda held her phone back up to her ear and began conversing with Gerald once more. “No, Gerald, you cannot run across the street. I don’t care if River has to use the bathroom! He can _hold_ it like a _man_.” 

“ _Excuse me!_ ” 

“ Wha- _at!”_ Linda turned, wondering who on earth could be so rude to interrupt her phone conversation. What she found was an old classmate from high school—a young(ish) woman with a red ponytail, wearing hideous blue pajamas underneath a puffy coat. (Ugh.) “Oh my God, hold on, Gerald. Becky _Barnes_ is accosting me... _Yes, call the police!_ ” 

“You can’t do that, Linda, you can't just cut the line!” Becky protested, blinking her oh-so-innocent blue eyes at Linda. 

“Oh, I did not cut,” Linda waved her off. “I bought this spot, fair and square.” 

“It’s alright, lady, I let her in,” the man who was now behind Linda and was her only buffer from Becky Barnes insisted. 

“Because she _paid_ you,” Becky argued. “That’s called a bribe, sir, and it’s illegal.” The man in front of her gave her a skeptical look. “...Or it should be...” 

Linda rolled her eyes and tuned the girl out as she held her phone back up to her ear and continued to talk to her husband. The conversation lulled as Gerald had to put down the phone to attend to one of her sons, and Linda tuned back in to the one-sided argument coming from behind her. 

“What if one of your neighbors, who’s been in line for hours, gets up there and doesn’t get a doll?” Becky Barnes was saying. 

“Look, it’s one less doll,” the man said in an exasperated tone. 

“Oh, no, no,” Linda laughed, laying a hand on the man’s shoulder. “ _One_? No, I need _four_. I have _four_ boys. Four beautiful, blonde boys. They’re not just going to share hw _one_ like some junkie children with a needle.” 

“ _Linda,”_ Becky Barnes rebuked, giving her an impertinent look of disbelief. “Do you _really_ think your children are better than everyone else’s?” 

“In so many words ye- _e_ s!” There was a chorus of protests from the people standing behind her, and she turned to glare at them and exclaim, “Oh, shut up! You know what? I hope you don’t get a Wiggly. I hope you fucking die.” 

She turned back to Becky Barnes and fixed her with a disapproving look. Then, she asked imperiously, “What are you doing here anyway? You don’t even have children, thank God.” 

“For your information, I’m here for the patients of the St. Damien’s Pediatric Wing,” Becky replied, threading her hands through the ugly blue shirt she was wearing and shaking it about for some kind of emphasis. “Kids who are gonna be spending this Christmas in a hospital bed.” 

“Ew,” Linda stared, her lip curling slightly. 

“There’s a little girl there, Bridgette, she was in an accident—a horrible accident—and—” 

“Well, my children were accidents!” Linda spluttered. “You don’t see me pushing my problems onto everyone else!” 

“You know what?” Becky asked, rounding on the man in front of her. “If I was you, I’d say, ‘I don’t need your money, Linda Monroe, and I'd tear that check right down the middle! We’d all cheer. Come on! Tear that check, tear that check—” 

“Hey, uh, if he doesn't want it, I’ll take the check!” the next man in line behind them piped up, raising his hand as he volunteered. 

“No, it’s my check,” the one in front of Becky insisted hotly. He gave Becky an annoyed look, as though saying, _“This is all your fault.”_

“See, Becky Barnes?” Linda gestured around them. “This is Hatchetfield. Not that rah-rah-cheerleader bullshit that you never grew out of.” 

She went about her business for a short while, arguing with Becky further and then speaking on the phone with Gerald some. She was interrupted only by the appearance of another classmate (Tom Houston) from high school, who had the nerve to cut in front of Becky. And she let him! After all that drama with Linda buying her spot in line, propriety was forgotten at the woman's old beau. And he had looked _so_ much better in high school than he did now. At least listening to the gossip was slightly entertaining. Finally, though, a girl stepped out of Toyzone and stood in front of the door. 

“All right, people, the doors are now opening!” she announced, receiving excited and pleased exclamations. “Please enter the store in an orderly fashion. Those here to pick up a Tickle-me-Wiggly, you can get those at the checkout counter—but remember, they are first come first serve, so _stay in line_.” 

The line proceeded to move forward into the store, winding through the shelves and coming to a halt in front of the checkout desk. No one branched off to buy anything else. As they moved, they exclaimed happily, and the store manager flitted amongst the line before taking up his post at the desk. At the sight of the upper-middle-aged greasy man who came to a halt at the counter, the manager smiled, “Look, a valued customer! Good morning sir, can I get you a Tickle-me-Wiggly?” 

Linda looked at the manager, who was wearing a red polo, black pants, and a badge that said _Frank_. He had said doll in his hands and was leaning forward expectantly. Everyone in line waited with bated breaths as the man calmly said in a slimy voice, “Yes. In fact, I would like all of them.”

“Wait, what?” the manager asked, his face falling slack in surprise. 

“What did that guy just say?” someone back in the line called out. 

“Excuse me sir, did my ears deceive me or did you say you want to buy _all_ of them?” Frank questioned, leaning forward over the desk as though his life depended on the answer. 

The little man wrung his hands together excitedly and tittered, “Yes.” 

“As in the entire stock of eight hundred and fifty Wigglys at forty-nine, ninety-nine each?” the store owner asked incredulously. His face screwed up in an obviously failed attempt to do the math in his head. “That’s—” 

“Forty-four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars, including sales tax,” the scruffy man informed him in his weak, watery voice that somehow managed to still be unpleasantly oily to the ears of all the listeners. 

Linda’s mouth fell open in shock as the uniformed man behind the counter lit up like a Christmas tree, and gasped out, “ _Would you like them **gift wrapped**?_” 

“ _No!”_ Linda shrieked, stepping out of line slightly to come forward and complain. “No, no, no, no, _no_. He can’t buy _all the dolls_. _Some_ of us have been waiting in line _forever_.” 

Again, murmurs began to go down the line. She distinctly heard someone shout, “Hey, what’s going on up there?” 

“I think someone’s trying to buy all the dolls!” 

“I better get one!” the guy in front of Becky called out, trying to come to the front of the line as well so he could get a doll before some strange man bought every single Wiggly in stock.

“Sorry, lady!” Frank beamed and then snapped at her forcefully. “First come, first serve, all sales are final. Could I interest you in a gummy bug maker?” 

Linda let out a disbelieving noise of disgust—obviously not interest in the slightest in a gummy bug maker—and rounded on the man in front of her. “You should be ashamed of yourself, you disgusting little pervert. What’s a _grown man_ going to do with eight hundred and fifty dolls?” 

“Well,” the man said excitedly, gesturing with flapping hands, “one will stay in the box for posterity. One, will be used _exclusively_ for bath time!” 

“This is _unbelievable!_ ” Linda cried, throwing her hands up in the air as the man in front of her continued to babble on about all of the ways he planned to "use" the various Wiggly dolls. 

“Look, lady, if you’re gonna make with the hysterics, _take it to Macy’s_!” Frank shouted. 

Linda drew herself up, shaking her arm out of her cape and pointing at him, “How _dare_ you!” She lifted her phone, which had been resting on her shoulder, up to her ear and snapped into it, “Are you hearing this, Gerald? _Yes_ , call my attorney!” 

And the revolting little man was _still_ going on. “I will tickle one doll, and one doll...will tickle me.”

“Listen, I've been waiting here all night, and I am not leaving here without a Wiggly,” one man called from behind her. 

“And I’m in a hurry!” came another annoyed voice. As people began to protest, one man moved up the line and came to a halt at the desk. It was a weaselly fellow with wire rimmed glasses and a shiny ear piece. He was dressed smartly in a suit and tie, with a long coat and a cashmere scarf. Linda almost smiled as she recognized him.

“Hi, Gary Goldstein, attorney-at-law, I was a little further back in line?” he said in one breath, whipping out a card. 

“Oh, Gary, thank God,” Linda breathed, prompting Gary Goldstein to move over to where she stood. 

He placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned forward conspiratorially as he said in a nasally tone, “Are you aware that my client, Linda Monroe, suffers from a _rare_ , little understood _anxiety disorder?_ And any lasting medical conditions that _may arise_ from stress caused on _these premises_ are _your_ liability, sir? I hope you have your finances in order! Get ready for audits!”

Linda, who was turned looking at the line that stretched behind her, smirked and mouthed the word, “ _Audits_ ,” just so everyone was clear. The lawyer's voice went up in volume threateningly as he continued to speak.

“Audits up your ears! Audits in your yin-yang! Audits up your wazoo!” 

“All right, all right, look,” Frank finally said, looking very put-upon. “We’re gonna try to be fair.” Gary nodded to Linda, looking quite proud of himself, and began moving back to his spot in line. Linda turned back to the front desk, satisfied. “We’re gonna put a limit on how many Wigglys each customer can purchase. One. Per. Person! _You happy now?_ ” 

There was a resounding noise of agreement front the crowd, broken only by a single protest. 

“ _No!”_ Linda screeched. “Of all the arbitrary numbers, why _hwone_? Why not a nice, _even_ number...like _four_?” 

The whole line began protesting loudly and Linda turned to them indignantly, saying in a haughty tone, “Well, you can buy _less_ if you want.” 

“I thought all sales were final,” the slimy man who had started this whole mess interrupted loftily. 

“Look, you’re not getting all the Wigglys, you sicko,” the manager snapped. 

“Well now you’ll be hearing from _my_ attorney!” the man exclaimed, waving his hands about and thrusting his nose in the air. 

Gary, who hadn’t even made it back to his spot in line, ran forward once more and said in record speed, “HiGaryGoldsteinattorneyatlaw—Are you aware that my client, Sherman Young, is being _discriminated against_?” 

“Oh, shut up, Gary,” Linda exclaimed, grabbing the weasel by his shoulders and kneeing him in the groin. 

Gary bent over, waddling back down the line, crying, “ _Ooh!_ Right in the _subpoena_!” 

“All right, forget this line!” a bearded man from within the line shouted. He stepped out and held up a wad of cash. “I’ll give you five hundred dollars cash money for one Wiggly.” 

“Now, there’s an idea,” the manager gasped, grinning like a madman. “Would you like it gift wrapped?” 

“No, _I’ll_ give you _seven_ hundred!” the one in front of Becky challenged. 

“Everyone back in line!” the young shop girl who had previously been gaping at the proceedings called, attempting to herd them back in line. 

The bearded one shoved her with a rapid cry of, “Shut the fuck up!” 

“Get your hands off her!” Tom Houston protested loudly. 

“Fuck you!” the man in a hurry shot out without even looking at Houston, brandishing a finger in the air and waving it at him. 

Frank didn’t seem to be concerned at the proceedings in the slightest, only grinning and holding the Wiggly on high as he shouted, “Show me the money, people, show me the money!” 

“Eight hundred dollars!” the man in a hurry called out. 

“Three dollars,” another said hopefully, stepping out of line and fanning out his three dollars. 

“Can I use these coupons?” Gary called, holding said coupons up. 

“This ain’t right!” a father called out, backing away from the line. “I lost my job when the plant closed! I can’t afford three-five hundred dollars for a doll! A Wiggly is forty-nine, ninety-five!” 

“Sorry, pal, the price just went up,” the manager retorted. “Supply and demand is a wonderful thing. Whoever pays the most for a Wiggly, _gets_ a _Wiggly_.” 

“Well, if you’re not gonna sell me that doll...” the harried father panted, hunching up as his eyes grew dark. “Then, I guess I’m just gonna have to take it!” 

With that, he charged forward like a bull presented with the most enraging red flag and grabbed at the doll. Frank still managed to hold on even as the man growled, “Give me the fucking—No!” 

He managed to wrestle it out of their grips and backed away with it held close to his chest, letting out a strange, animalistic snarl as Frank shouted, “Hey, hands off the merchandise, pal!” 

“Well, if he gets one, then I want four!” Linda proclaimed, moving swiftly to the counter where Wigglys were stacked neatly. 

The man continued to snarl and gnashed his teeth at everyone who began to encircle him. The crowd grew as they swarmed, realizing there was a doll within their midst. The man who was in a hurry was towards the inside of this ring. He reached towards the father with shaking hands and said sternly, “Give me that doll!” 

“No, give it to me!” 

And a spell seemed to be broken as a crowd of people swarmed, lunging for the doll in their sights. The one holding it let out a scream and bolted from the store, a mob chasing after him. At the same time, others in line began swarming the counter, grabbing anything they could grab. Linda found herself pinned down, unable to reach for a Wiggly as she was climbed on, pressed from the sides. There were kicks and shouts, and Frank let out a cry of pain as someone bit his hand. It seemed as though the entire populace of Hatchetfield—or at least those residing within the mall—had gone insane. Orderly fashion was well and truly gone, and a hungry mob was formed in its wake. No one was willing to leave empty handed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so uh, if you can't tell at this point, the majority of this story will be a retelling of Black Friday with a special twist in the middle. I had a lot of fun writing this--going through the dialogue and then adding in my own little flair to everything. If you liked it don't forget to give kudos and reviews! The next chapter will be posted next week. Until then, have a blast!


	3. Chapter 3

Hannah Foster had seen a lot over the short years of her existence—more than most would be comfortable allowing a child with. Some of it was because of things that her mother did. Other things she saw were because of Webby. Often, things from Webby would overwhelm her, taking up her entire mind. 

Hannah wasn’t stupid. She knew everyone thought she was crazy. Heck, half the time she thought she was crazy—or might end up there one day. She had a feeling that if she couldn’t control it, she would end up like her mother. But she did know that Webby was real. It was hard not to know that when your mind was filled of visions no one else could see, and words that somehow came true. Hannah didn’t know how Webby could tell the future, but well... 

Webby had never been wrong before. 

This was why Hannah was so on edge. Webby kept insisting over an over that something about that day was bad. Often when she heard Webby it was like through a broken radio caught up in a windstorm of interference—often she only got a couple words. Generally, they tended to be the most important parts of Webby’s messages. 

Bad place. Bad blood. Bad, bad, _bad_. 

Hannah just wanted to go home, crawl under her covers, and pray that Friday passes them by. Unfortunately, Lex had something she had to do, so Hannah was stuck in the mall being watched by Ethan. 

They were going to see a movie. 

A young man was sitting in a chair behind the ticket counter, dozing. Hannah figured that since it was the day everyone went shopping, no one would be watching movies. She would have fallen asleep too. Ethan led her up to the desk, looking at the worker, and cleared his throat. The other teenager awoke with a startled snort and said in a voice that was in the midst of the throes of puberty, “Oh, uh, hi welcome to Lakeside Mall Cineplex. How may I help you?” 

“Yeah, uh, can I get two tickets to that new flick—um...” Ethan trailed off, ducking his head and looking slightly embarrassed. “ _Santa Claus is Goin’ to High School_?” 

The Cineplex worker didn’t bat an eye at him, only droned on as he typed on his screen, “’Kay that’ll be two tickets to _Santa Claus is Goin’ to High School_...that’ll be twenty-seven fifty.” 

Ethan scoffed and backed up. He was doing the thing where he tried to look tougher than he was—only Hannah knew Ethan was tough, so she didn’t see why he had to pretend. “Are you kidding?” Ethan scoffed. “Thirty bucks for two tickets, that’s—Look, I’ll give you fifteen dollars, that’s as high as I’m goin’.” 

“Uh, sir?” the other teenager croaked, spreading out the bills in front of him. “Yeah, this isn’t a place where you can haggle, sir. Like I don’t set the prices, ‘kay, I’m just a high school kid.” 

“Yeah?” Ethan asked, walking back up to the counter. He vaulted over it and grabbed the kid by his collar. “We’ll I’m gonna find you at high school...cram you in a locker. And _fart_ in it.” 

“Oh, no!” the worker cried. ”N-not the easy bake oven!” 

“Oh, it’s the easy bake oven, for you!” Ethan threatened, pulling the other teenager close. 

“Hey!” A voice interrupted. All three people present looked up to see a mall cop entering the area. “What’s goin’ on here?” 

“Nothin’,” Ethan smiled, quickly letting go of the boy and wrapping his arm around his shoulders. “I’m—I’m just asking him a question.” 

“Don’t I know your face?” the mall cop asked, moving closer to Ethan. “Ain’t you been told not to hang around this mall?” 

Ethan sputtered. “Eh-ih-schj—I'm just takin’ the kid to see a movie.” 

“Yeah, you’re comin’ with me!” Hannah began panicking as the mall cop started pulling Ethan away, dragging him by his arm. He made it a few steps, and then halted as his radio made a _schk!_ noise. The man held up the radio and talked quietly into it, turned away where they could only just make out, “Yeah? What’s goin’ on at Toyzone? Ah, shit! You kids get out of here!” 

With that last warning, the cop ran off. The boy working at Cineplex didn’t have to be told twice. He grabbed his things from under the counter and bolted. Ethan watched him go, rooted to the spot. Hannah wondered if they were leaving too, but a vision swam in her mind, making her knees go wobbly. 

The girl sat down, looking in her mind at a stocky, brown-haired man yelling hysterically at some people. “Don’t do it!” she exclaimed, worried for what was going to happen. “Two doors...not one...” 

“I’m sorry, Hannah,” Ethan interrupted, sitting next to her. She latched onto his voice and listened, trying to tune out the vision. “I thought I could get us in. I woulda shelled out on tickets—I'm just a little low on funds at the moment. I thought my old jalopy weren’t gonna make it all the way to California, so I uh suck a grand into it. Hey, don’t tell your sister I got no dough, uh, she’ll lose respect for me. Hey.” She finally managed to blink away the strange man, and found Ethan’s face swimming in front of her own. “What’s shakin’ banana? You okay?” 

“Bad place,” she shook her head. “Black and White.” 

“Look, I know you’re nervous to leave home,” Ethan tried to reassure her. She was a little frustrated because he _wasn’t listening_ , but looking at his earnest face, she couldn’t stay mad. “But, you gotta trust me. It’s gonna be so much better for you once you’re outta there. And hey, maybe once you're gone—maybe then you're mom’ll realize, ‘Hey, I gotta do better.’ Do you trust your sister, Hannah?” 

Well that was one question she could answer easily. The girl nodded, “Uhuh.” 

“And do you believe that, uh, no matter how bad it looks right now, things’ll get better?” Ethan added. 

Hannah shook her head. “No. Not better. _Badder_. Much badder.” 

He gave her a long look and she felt her hopes lifting—maybe he was listening! But then, he cut in with, “Hey, what’s with that grammar? Even _I_ know it’s _more_ badder.” 

She opened her mouth to try to explain it better, but Ethan cut her off at the sound of a noise up ahead. Both looked up to see forms moving towards them—Hannah thought they were people, only, they weren’t really moving like people. 

“What the hell is that?” Ethan asked, standing to look into the dark mall better. “I think we’d better split, Banana!” 

He pushed her away and then turned to the man who was staggering towards him. Hannah’s eyes grew in fright. The man had red scratch marks on his jaw. It looked like a person had clawed at his face. Ethan looked at him, concerned, and moved to help, asking, “Hey, are you okay?” 

“NO, I’M NOT OKAY,” the man screamed, socking Ethan in the jaw. The teenager fell to the ground and spat blood upon the tiles, having bitten down hard into his tongue. 

Hannah gasped at the sight of the red substance, and exclaimed, “Bad blood!” She was shaking like a leaf. 

“Hannah get out of here!” Ethan called, gesturing her to move frantically as he struggled to get to his feet. “The play-place by Marshalls—get in the kiddie tunnel!” 

The girl quickly did as she was told, hoisting her backpack higher and putting a hand on her hat as she ran. The girl tried to ignore the shouts and thuds coming from behind her, but it was very hard. 

“ _They’re killing him_ ,” Webby told her. 

Hannah blinked away tears as she ran. 

......... 

_Click, click, click_ came the heels of a woman moving through a department store. Linda Monroe looked a little less glamorous and a little more bedraggled than she had first thing that morning, but still not too worse for wear. She was breathing heavily from running in her nice boots, her pale blonde hair falling into her face. As she walked, she talked quietly—some part of her knew it was important to keep her voice down. 

“Christ in heaven,” Linda breathed. “It’s madness in here, Gerald, madness.” She listened as a response came through the line on her phone. “ _What_? _No_ , I’m not frightened! I’m _annoyed_. Because some asshole took my doll, and—” she cut off letting of a high-pitched keel, sounding like the full-grown woman version of a baby crying, and barely managed to get out intelligibly through the whines, “ _I had a hair appointment todayyyyy_.” 

With that, the dam broke and she began sobbing raggedly, sinking onto the floor beside a large, open floor display of DVDs. She hung onto it for dear life, as suddenly she felt as though her world was ending. It was just all too much. 

“Well, well, well,” a deep, dark voice came, interrupting her well-deserved breakdown. “Hello naughty list.” 

Linda looked up to see some man standing by the nearest aisle, lounging against the shelves. The man had dark, slicked back, cinnamon-brown hair. He had on a jean jacket on top of button-down denim shirt, the top three buttons of which were unfastened, leaving a large sliver of chest to be seen. Hanging down in that space was a chain with a pair of dog tags. A black belt held up a pair of blue jeans. It was the worst fashion travesty Linda had ever seen. It took her only a second to take this all in, the whole while the man leered at her with a twisted smile. 

“How are you doin’ there, Linda?” he asked, smile not wavering. 

“Stay back, whoever you are!” Linda called, pulling her purse off of her shoulder and into her lap so she could rummage through it. “I’ve got pepper spray, and I use it _more_ than you can _ever_ imagine.” 

“Oh, I don't know if you wanna, wanna, wanna, wanna, wanna fuck with me, Ms. Monroe,” the man said, stepping away from the shelf with a step that could be better described as a jaunt. He continued, gesturing to himself with an unhinged, wide-eyed look and a shit-eating grin that read, _‘Try me bitch.’_

“I was a colonel once,” he said, and then let his face fall into a more serious expression as he pulled something out of his pocket. “And your pepper spray, well...That’s right here.” 

“Wha—” Linda gaped, she had finished rummaging through her purse, unable to find her pepper spray, and looked up to see it glinting in the man’s hand. "How did you—?” 

“Now, don’t you worry about that, Linda,” he grinned evilly, tucking the vial back into his pocket. 

“How do you know my name?” she asked in confusion. 

“Well, I know a whole heap about you!” the man smiled in reply. It wasn’t a nice smile—sharp, and full of points. He pulled out a poisonous-looking green apple and wandered around, circling her like a bird of prey. He walked very strangely, sauntering, with his hips swaying from side to side. It reeked of confidence, and put her even more on edge. 

“And this town—ooh—” he said, shuddering audibly with delight. “—Hatchetfield. Sure is a special place, you understand? And you—little lady—You are the most special person innit.” 

He came to a halt on the other side of the bin of DVDs, resting his elbows on the cases, heedless of the possibility that they might slide and make him face-plant. Instead, he put his head on his hands, tilted his head, and smiled at her demurely. 

“ _I know that!_ ” Linda cried, annoyed and trying to figure out what this man was getting at. “What do you want from me?” 

“Well I wanted to give you everything you ever **_desired_** _!”_ he growled with a manic grin, stepping from behind the bin and lunging towards her, down nearly on one knee, holding the apple in his hand. Then, he straightened up and began tossing the apple from one hand to the other. 

“You see, Linda, I know why you want those Wiggly dolls. ‘S the same reason only two of your four children are from Gerald!” he said polishing the apple on the inside of his jean jacket. Linda cleared her throat and ran her fingers through her hair, attempting to look away. How did he know that? Nobody knew that! “You keep lookin’ for it in the arms of other men and in the smiles of your _ungrateful little bratsss_.” 

He circled around to in front of her and leered through his eyebrows for a second, before softening slightly and leaning down towards her to say, “But you have been cruelly denied it, Linda. Go on. Say what it is.” 

“I want what everyone wants,” she said indignantly. “To be loved.” 

The man wheezed—actually wheezed—as a laugh choked him. He turned away from her and began moseying his way back over to the shelf on the aisle. 

“Is that a _crime_?” Linda snapped, feeling very harried and _very_ outraged at this man. 

“Oh, Linda, that’s the type of bullshit you feed your therapist and your life coach!” the strange man cackled. “ ** _Come on now!_** ” He finally reached the shelf and draped himself on it once more, turning to her and saying with a quiet smirk, “We all know that love is highly overrated. It’s a two-way street. You’ve got to give a little bit of yourself. But why-should-you _give_ when you can _get_?” 

This last bit was sung, and the hairs on the back of Linda’s neck stood up, leaving her with a trickling feeling that went all the way down her spine. Despite that, some part of her still leaned in, listening to his words. He laughed darkly and made his way back over again. 

“Ha-ha. No, no, no, Linda. You want to be....” he drew out the word, waving a finger in circle after circle, before letting it land on her, and he said, “adored. Worshiped. And I can help make that happen. All you gotta do is do what you do best.” 

“Shop,” she guessed, nodding at herself determinedly. 

“Be a mother,” he corrected without missing a beat, the finger still swinging to point at her as he turned and spoke over his shoulder 

“Right, right,” the woman said, finally getting to her feet and gathering up her purse. She moved towards him. “I’m a fabulous mother.” 

“Linda,” he met her halfway, and still continued circling. Now that she was standing it didn’t feel quite as terrifying, though it was still rather unsettling. “You were chosen long ago to bring about the birth of a friendy-wend of mine. All you gotta do is open your heart up to his _loove_.” As the man stood behind her, his hands first rested on her shoulder, and then moved up to her head to push her down towards the floor. 

“What are you doing?” Linda asked, her eyes wide. 

He didn’t respond, only asked, “Do you see him?” His chin came to rest on her shoulder and she was pulled down further. She felt as though her feet were sinking straight through the floor. 

“ _Do you see him?_ ” he repeated. The already dim room of the closed department store grew dark, seeming to fade away as everything became blacker and blacker. 

“ ** _Do you see him?_** _”_

Something seemed to be growing behind her eyes, pouring into her mind, filling everything with a green glow. She saw the man’s eyes hovering above her face, glowing a bright green. 

**“** **_DO YOU SEE HIM?”_ **

**_DO YOU SEE HIM--!?_ **

“ _Yes_ , I fucking _see him!_ ” Linda squawked indignantly.

......... 

A group of four people were gathered in a room in the White House—a Secretary of the State, a Secretary of Defense, a Vice President, and a President all stood in a room. It sounded like the makings of a horrible joke. The President, one Howard Goodman, was pacing back and forth as he tried to come to terms with the news he had been given—the reason this meeting had been called. All four people looked very neat, and very put together. Suits, styled hair, the works. 

“Can someone tell me...” Howard Goodman began, trailing off for a second before gathering his thoughts. “What the hell is happening out there?! For God’s sake, the country is coming apart at the seams.” 

“It's a goddamn uprising, is what it is,” the Secretary of Defense replied in a deep voice. He stood at attention, his chin lifted, his arms folded behind his back. “Could be anarchists, terrorists, socialists! Give me two hours, Mr. President, and I’ll organize a series of drone strikes against the key instigators of this revolt.” 

Goodman smiled and snapped, pointing at the man to show is approval. A woman stepped forward. 

“No, Mr. President, these riots are not ideologically motivated,” the Secretary of State said in a honey-smooth voice. “Make no mistake: this is shopper mania, and a fuck-ton of it.” 

“Now, uh, I know this may sound hard to believe,” interrupted the dark-skinned Vice President. “But I-it seems what these people are rioting over is a, u-uhhhhh, a doll!” 

“A doll? Bob, are you serious?” the President questioned. “People are killing each other over for aaaaa- _a toy_?” 

“Yes, Mr. President,” the Vice President replied, pulling a large doll out of seemingly nowhere. “This toy. It’s called a, uhhhh, Tickle-me-Wiggly.” 

“No, no. This can’t be happening,” the President disputed frantically. “We beat the Nazis! And the Communists! And people are cannibalizing each other over some fucking weird little monster?” 

The President paused, and looked at the ugly green monster for a moment, and his countenance softened. 

“I mean, I admit—” the President said, “he is kind of cute. And I’ll come right out and say it! _He has a fuzzy tummy._ And I wouldn’t mind tickling that little... _belly-well_. In fact, Maurice—” He cleared his throat and straightened, looking his level best to be a trusted leader of the people. “—why don’t you uh... _hand him here_.” 

“Why?” the Vice President asked warily, clutching the fluffy doll to his chest. 

“I—need to—understand.... what we’re up against here,” the President grasped. “And the only way I can do that... _is if I hold it in my arms!_ ” 

“ _No!_ ” cut in a deep voice behind them. The Secretary of Defense stepped forward, his medals jingling quietly. “No. No, no, no, no, no, Mr. President. I’m the secretary of defense. It’s my job to protect the nation and you! I'll hold on to the little uhhhhhh,” he made a few clucking sounds with his tongue as he searched for the correct word— “whipper snapper.” 

“ ** _Like hell you will!_** ” the President roared, knocking the Secretary of Defense back. 

“That is enough!” the Secretary of State interrupted, stepping between the President and the Vice President. “ _Enough, enough_. Ehm, one of my political heroes has always been John F. Kennedy. He saved this country from the Cuban Missile Crisis by keeping a _cool head_. That’s what we need now. A _cool head_. _So_ , while you three devise a strategy, _I’ll hold on to the Wiggly_.” 

“ ** _Shut_** _the_ ** _fuck_** _up_ ** _!_** _”_ The President shouted before rounding on the Vice President. “Maurice, I am the _goddamn president_ of the _United States of America_ , _and I_ ** _order_** _you to hand me that_ ** _fucking doll_** _!_ ” 

“ ** _No!_** _”_ The Vice President yelled. “You’re nothing more than a Harvard-law-school-community-organizing _prick_! Take one step closer to my friendy-wend and I’ll rip your fucking third off with my own teeth!” 

“He’s not your friendy-wend, he’s _mine_!” the Secretary of State hissed. “ _I’m_ gonna tickle that doll.” 

“ _No! He’s mine!”_ joined in the Secretary of Defense. “Back off or I will send a laser-guided ballistic missile to your house in Denver! You’ll be _scraping_ what’s left of your _kids_ off the **_fuckin’ pavement!_** ” He said this with such gusto that his neatly styled hair flew everywhere, his eyes wide and wild. 

“ ** _MAURICE!_** _”_ The President screamed. “ ** _GIVE_** ME THAT **COCK. SUCKING. MOTHER-FUCKING. COCKADOODLE.** **_DOOOOOOOOLLLLLLL!_** ” 

With that, the President ran forward with a scream towards the Vice President, who had hopped up onto the desk. The other two people in the room ran forward as well, the Secretary of Defense yelling, “Give it to me!” 

“ ** _NO!_** ” the Vice President screamed. “Stay back!” 

The President tried clawing his way up the man, growling, “ **I’ll bite your nipples off!** ” 

“No, this is mine! _No! Oh!_ ” the Vice President continued to scream as the President tried to chew through the man’s suit jacket, and the two Secretaries were attempting to pull him down from behind. Everything became a muddled mess of shouts and screams and yells and then— 

BANG. 

It was like a spell had been broken. All of them fell to the floor, panting, and the Vice President slid off of the desk and onto the floor, leaning his head back against the hard wood. The President gasped for air, looking at his hands in bewilderment, and then back up at the Vice President. 

“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed. “Maurice! A-are you okay?” 

“Ahh I think I’m gonna vomit,” the Vice President stated quickly. 

“I almost killed you Mr. President!” the Secretary of State cried, looking stricken. 

“I-I-I don’t know what came over me,” the President whispered, still looking at his hands. 

“I do,” a voice interrupted and the four, who had until now not managed to gather enough peace of mind to realize anyone was with them, turned in surprise. A man stood in front of the window, his back to them. The light from the late afternoon sun streaming in made his hair glow an otherworldly color, almost giving him a halo. The man held above him the tattered remains of the Wiggly doll; its face having been blown off. 

He didn’t turn around as he said, “Sorry for the intrusion, Mr. President. Hope you don’t mind that I let myself in.” 

“Into the Oval Office?” Goodman asked incredulously. “Who the _hell_ are you?” 

“My name’s General John McNamara of the United States military,” the man enunciated clearly, turning to fix him with wide blue eyes. Now that the president could see the man’s face, he noticed a chiseled jaw and a dark blonde beard. His curly, butterscotch colored hair was tucked up under a beret. 

“Special unit P.E.I.P,” the general continued. “We call it ‘peep’.” 

“Peep?” Goodman asked, blinking as he tried to get his brain working. “I’ve never heard of you guys.” 

“Oh, we’re a fairly small team. Me...and a few of my peeps.” Goodman stared at McNamara blankly. “That was a joke, sir,” the man said, receiving nothing. He moved back onto the topic. “Our department handles crises of a certain nature. Stuff not unlike what we have here on this Black Friday.” 

“What do you mean, certain situations?” 

“Mr. President,” came the reply. “Behind the veil of the universe you perceive are entities both ageless and foul, and these eldritch forces are rising. There’s a creature at work here...one with designs for humanity far worse than any one nightmare that we can comprehend, and he is marshaling his power. Mr. President, if humanity is to have any hope for survival, you’re going to have to come with me.” 

“Where?” 

“To borrow an expression, we are about to step out of the blue... _and into the black_.” 

McNamara threw the dismembered Wiggly down and tucked his arms behind his back, as he explained, “There are monsters, and there are men, Mr. President. Sometimes you have to wake and answer the call. Remember the phrase, ‘ _the buck stops here_ ’? Well that’s you. We’ve got to stand up for all that is good and right in this world—there are forces that mean all of humanity real harm, here. We need every hand, Mr. President. You better align your soul with what’s good and right and learn to discern the truly good from the truly bad. It’s the only chance we’ve got.” 

“So, we're not exactly dealing with terrorists here,” the President asked, framing it as a statement to make himself feel surer about this whole situation. McNamara had pulled him and the others to his feet and the president straightened his tie. 

McNamara could feel his unease, however, so simply tipped his head in acknowledgment and agreed, “Not exactly.” 

“What do you want from me?” Goodman asked weakly. 

“Look me in the eye now, sir,” McNamara said seriously, coming to stare into the president’s face. “I need you to make a solemn vow to become your best self now. I know our opponent, sir...” he took a deep breath, “requires nothing less than your absolute best. I know it's hard. The world is pain and distraction. But there have been occasions met by lesser men who took the lead.” McNamara put his hand on the president’s chest. “It must be you.” 

“It must be me,” Goodman said softly. 

“Never take your office lightly.” 

“I'll never take my office lightly,” the president agreed firmly, straightening himself out importantly. 

“You must fill your heart and make good with God immediately,” McNamara commanded him seriously. 

“There are monsters and there are men,” Goodman breathed, repeating McNamara’s words from the beginning of his speech. 

The general gave the president a grave nod, and said, “You're going to have to step into the Black and White.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand John McNamara is back! We are down to one chapter left before Aziraphale and Crowley show up, so look forward to that. So far my update schedule has been pretty irregular and I'm sorry for that for anyone who's following my story. I would promise to do better, but honestly I probably won't, haha. Just know that I have three more to post and will make an effort to post one a week. If you read this, please leave a review, kudos, the likes. Love you all and happy reading!


	4. Chapter 4

_They all filed into the room, John joining the other soldiers as they lined the walls and trained their guns on the pulsing air. The scientist went to stand over by the machine, and without a hint of hesitation, Wilbur Cross walked into the light._

John McNamara had waited with his peers with bated breath, staring with wide eyes and guns trained on the hole in the universe. An eternity seemed to pass. The scientist was staring at his watch, counting down. He announced each time a minute went by. Then, when there was a minute left, the man counted down from sixty. 

“Fifty-nine...fifty-eight...” 

“Are we seriously just going to close it on him?” John snapped. 

“Forty-six....forty-five... 

“Those are our orders, soldier!” a captain shouted. 

“Thirty-four...thirty-three...” 

But John wasn’t. He wasn’t a soldier. He was only here because he had been drawn to and intrigued by paranormal activity. The man behind that portal was his _husband_ , for God’s sake (the laws of the state of Michigan be damned). He wasn’t going to let this happen, no matter what Wilbur had said. 

“Twenty...nineteen...” 

He could jump in there after him, or—or—

“Fifteen...fourteen...” 

There was nothing else for it. Wilbur still hadn’t returned. John would have to do something drastic. His eyes flitted about. He had thirteen seconds to plan. But what would happen if he did something? Would he get fired? Would Wilbur come back and write it off? Would Wilbur get into trouble for it? What was taking him so long, anyway? Surely it didn’t take ten minutes to jump in, grab a man, and jump back out. What if he... 

“Four...three...” 

Shit, he had been thinking too long. Well, there was nothing else he could do, John felt his muscles coil as he prepared himself, and without a moment to spare he leapt across the room and tacked the scientist and machine to the ground. At the exact same moment, a form emerged through the portal and then, seconds later, the portal closed with a snap. 

......... 

On the morning of Friday, November 27, 2020, John McNamara had no way of knowing what was in store for him. Thirteen years had passed since Wilbur had disappeared into the Black and White, and John had been through a few promotions. He was a general now—further than Wilbur had ever made it, before—

He hated thinking about what had happened. This was why the man spent most of his time sitting at his desk at PEIP HQ, determinedly Not Thinking about Wilbur. Their headquarters had been moved to Hatchetfield after the Incident. The Black and White, the portal to the aforementioned, and the weak spots in their dimension needed to have eyes kept on them. It wasn’t too far of a stretch—the organization simply moved from one city in Michigan to the next one over. They set up in the abandoned mall complex, which was on the opposite side of the city as the currently used Lakeside Mall. 

John had been keeping an eye on the production of the Wiggly doll from a safe distance for one main reason: Wilbur. He had been sitting at his desk one day, specifically Not Thinking about Wilbur, and had almost fallen out of his chair at the sound of a familiar voice. The voice sounded a little unhinged, but it was unmistakable, even after thirteen years. John had been friends with the man for three years, lovers for two, and spent nearly every waking moment with the man for the last year. It was hard to forget that voice, one that had buried itself deep in his heart, lingering on the last phrase Wilbur had ever spoken. 

“ _Don’t wait up..._ ” 

So, when Wilbur’s voice came blasting out of the radio at full force, doing an ad for an ugly doll, of all things, John McNamara had nearly had a heart attack. Unfortunately, all he really could do was keep up with the intel on the dolls—where they were being manufactured, who owned the company, that sort of thing. He had checked out the plant in Silicon Valley, but the workers there had never seen hide nor hair of their boss, the namesake of the brand _Uncle Wiley’s Toys_. Wiley. John supposed his Wilbur was well and truly gone. 

And he had the most terrible feeling about the day that the toys were supposed to debut, and the dread only grew worse the closer and closer the day got. This was why he was planning plans and contingencies for _months_ before the Black Friday of 2020 rolled around. He knew the Wiggly doll had some sort of significance, but John didn’t think he could be sure until he saw one in person. All he knew was that something was about to go down, and it likely was going to involve the Black and White on a global scale, indicated by the wild popularity of the doll before it had even been released to stores. 

They still didn’t know much about the Black and White, but what they did know was enough for anyone to make the choice to forcibly try and act against it. John, for one, could never forget the days after Wilbur had first returned from the portal... 

Thanksgiving Day, John McNamara was in Washington D.C. in an official capacity, having dinner with a group of higher ups in the American government. He spent the night in a hotel in the city. While thousands of Americans were sitting in the cold, outside stores, John lay in his bed on tenterhooks, not quite able to fall asleep. He had always had problems with insomnia, and it only grew worse when he was dreading the next day. Still, he managed to get a decent enough amount of sleep to function on, and then downed several cups of coffee in the morning as he sat by the radio, listening. 

By ten in the morning, it was evident that something was terribly wrong with the Wiggly dolls. Already, PEIP scientists were theorizing about it and reporting to him via text. 

By mid-afternoon, John was driving to the White House, and the radio was playing, “ _This is Carl Mason, coming to you live from New York from continuing coverage on what is already being called the Black Friday from Hell. From the mall of America to Macy’s Herald Square, reports are flooding in of violent riots breaking out at retailers of all sizes....”_

John twisted the wheel as he pulled in a drive, and then put the car in park just as the reporter was saying, _“With mayors and governors pleading to the government for aid, speculation swirls on whether the President Howard Goodman will declare a State of Emergency_ — _”_

The general walked across the lawn of the White House, unnoticed. He went through the front doors, heading for the Oval Office. When he passed security guards, they would rush at him frantically and he would flash his badge at them. Every single time, the guards would duck back to their posts. The good thing about PEIP badges was that even if no one quite knew what PEIP was, they were always wary at the sight of the top-secret organization that not even the president was ever briefed on. 

That was why he had gotten in so easily, in his full military uniform, holding a gun. He heard a commotion behind the doors—yelling, thumping, the works. The man threw the door open, jumped into a crouch, and shot at the Wiggly doll being held in the air without a thought. 

After he managed to convince the president to help, which was nothing short of a miracle, his people had landed and bundled said bewildered president into a helicopter. They flew to Hatchetfield in a trip that only lasted a little over an hour and was way too uncomfortable. John sat in his seat, bouncing with the motions of the chopper, clutching his gun with white knuckles. The president seemed to have a thousand questions and was either too nervous of the steel-jawed mess of nerves, or was too motion sick to ask. 

They finally touched down in an abandoned parking lot, and the team ushered the president inside. The stocky, dark haired man in question gazed about with wide eyes. Their headquarters was probably an eerie sight, fitting for a paranormal organization. 

The ceilings were cracking from water damage, though none had sprung any leaks. The walls were half paint and half tile—and half of the tiles had chipped or fallen to the ground, where they sat amidst piles of plaster. Most of the lights didn’t work, so the place relied on natural lighting a good bit, and was otherwise very dim and slightly lit at night. All of the shops were either boarded up with bars, empty and full of trash, or a new office for a member of PEIP. Those were the rooms with the most lighting, the ones that had people in them. 

“Paranormal. Extraterrestrial. Inter-dimensional Phenomena,” John told Goodman as the man looked around. “That is the purview of our organization, Mr. President. Welcome—to PEIP headquarters.” 

He spread his arms wide in a showing off sort of gesture and received a concerned look from the harried president. Then, John added, “We actually moved to this town some years ago due to the level of activity here. We believe it’s a sort of weak point between dimensions.” 

“Okay, okay so I'm still trying to wrap my head around all this,” Goodman said as John led him down a non-functional escalator and into the largest department store of the abandoned mall. “So, you’re telling me that there is another dimension?” 

The department store had been cleared out of shelves and things and hosted the majority of their operations—a few cubicles, men milling about, an area with couches that was used as a break room. John drew to a halt here and turned to reply to the other man. 

“There are many dimensions, Mr. President,” he said. “What concerns us today is a place outside all dimensions. A swirling sea of psychic energy we call the Black and White. The current ruler of this realm is an entity we’ve known of for thirteen years, but has only now revealed his name. Wiggly.” 

“The doll?” the president asked incredulously. 

“The doll’s only a part of it,” another man said, stepping out of the group of people milling about. He wore a leather jacket and sunglasses, which he put on top of his head as Howard Goodman gave him a blank look. “What, you don’t remember your catechism? The father’s the son, the son’s the father—Wiggly rules on high in the Black and White, but he also _is_ the dolls. Bet you didn’t guess the Lord of Despair would be so cute and cuddly, did ya?” 

Howard said nothing, and McNamara stepped forward to introduce the pair. “Xander Lee,” he informed the president, gesturing to the black-leather-clad-indoors-sunglasses man. “Theoretical physicist.” 

“Physicist?” Howard asked. “What, is that like a scientist?” 

“Yes,” John blinked at him. “He’s also the best damn field agent I’ve ever worked with.” 

“Field agent. Is that like a soldier?” the president questioned. John gave him a exasperated look. “I’m sorry, I’m so lost. Okay, so, Wiggly—he makes people go crazy. Why? What does he want?” 

“Howie. Can I call you Howie?” Xander said, clapping the president on the shoulder. Said president looked like he very much protested being called Howie by a stranger, but wasn't given enough time to get a word in edgewise. “Howie, listen. Wiggly wants us. He wants everything. He’s a-knocking, and he was in.” 

John stepped back in to explain, “Thirteen years ago, PEIP constructed a portal—a portal connecting our reality to the Black and White. My _mentor_ , Wilbur Cross, stepped through that portal and came back a raving lunatic. He pledged his undying loyalty to the forces within and disappeared soon after.” 

He noticed Xander looked very solemn and was shooting McNamara concerned looks. McNamara forcibly ignored the man in favor of the nervous president who let out a nervous laugh and said, “That’s heavy.” 

“Today,” John continued, “we want to send you through that portal.” 

“ _Me_?” Howard squeaked. 

“You are the democratically elected president of the United States of America, and you must negotiate peace with Wiggly.” 

“You wanna send me to the fuckin’ twilight zone?” Goodman attempted to clarify. “To have a sit-down with the devil? Fuck that.” He backed away from them, making abortive gestures with his hands and shaking his head emphatically. “ _Fuck that!_ FUCK THAT, THAT’S ALL FOLKS!” 

The man turned to make a beeline out the door, but Xander caught him by the shoulder and pulled him back until he was standing next to him, saying, “Howie! Lis _ten_. These riots are just the beginning. Right now, Wiggly is culling the wheat from the chafe, and when the only people left are his most devout followers, they will build him his birth canal.” 

“A portal much larger than ours,” John said, giving Xander an annoyed glare at the way he was treat the president of their nation. He came up to stand on Howard’s other side. “A portal large enough for Wiggly himself to cross over, and when he does? He will remake creation to his liking. In short, Mr. President, we are trying to stop the birth...of a god.” 

Howard Goodman, caged in on both sides by disturbing secret agents, looked especially stricken at that statement. John, meanwhile had a set look of determination. Xander slipped his sunglasses back on. 

......... 

The room was suddenly very dark in the absence of the tear of light. John was sprawled on the floor, on top of both the scientist and the delicate machinery that had made inter dimensional travel possible. And standing over him was Wilbur. He was silhouetted in the dark, but it was obvious who had arrived in the room when Wilbur’s voice called out, “Don't shoot! Don't shoot!” 

The voice, while definitely the pitch and timber of Wilbur’s voice, didn't quite sound right. There was a sharp edge to it now, but John thought that maybe he was just hearing things—the man had only said four words, after all. John scrambled to his feet as Wilbur stood over him, muttering something under his breath. John caught something that sounded oddly like something about corporations and “ _Am I dead?_ ” But he put it out of his mind. Instead, ignoring the fact that they were surrounded by coworkers, he flung himself onto Wilbur. He might have lost his best friend. He would be damned if he couldn't hug him. 

Wilbur stiffened under his arms and the younger man drew back, concerned. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I know there's people here but—I just thought—well—” 

“Ah, my head,” Wilbur groaned, seemingly ignoring his partner in favor of rubbing his temples. 

“So, what happened in there?” John asked. 

“Where's Michael?” The scientist asked. 

Wilbur sighed, dropped his hands, and asked with a blank look, “Who?” 

John stared at him. “Michael Brown?” He prompted. “The man you went after? The reason you were in there in the first place?” 

“Oh, right uh….” The man's face screwed up as he thought hard, looking like he was attempting to piece his mind back together. “Yeah he's gone. Back there, somewhere.” He gestured casually over his shoulder. John gaped at the cavalier attitude. He wasn't the only one. 

“Colonel?” One of the other solders asked. “Are you okay?” 

“Colonel, right yes, that’s me, isn't it?” Wilbur asked, stumbling forward. 

“I think he should go home,” John interrupted, sensing that something was not right with Wilbur, and really hoping the man wasn't injured. 

“He should really be examined, we haven't had people come out of—” the scientist attempted to say, but John cut him off. 

“I really think the _colonel_ should go home,” he said forcefully. 

“Yes, home, that sounds great.” Wilbur nodded. John grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him out of there and to the car. 

The drive to their apartment took less than half an hour and was spent with John shooting Wilbur nervous glances as he drove. Wilbur, on the other hand, kept glancing about, his fingers twitching. They finally got home and Wilbur quietly followed John up to their floor, his face furrowed thoughtfully. 

Once they were inside, John slammed the door shut, threw the keys on the coffee table, and rounded on Wilbur, who cringed slightly in wariness. “Are you okay?” John asked. “Not injured anywhere?” 

Wilbur patted himself down and then shook his head, muttering, “I believe I'm fine.” 

“Good,” John stated before wrapping the man up in a bone crushing hug. “We're alone now. You happy, you nut?” 

Wilbur squirmed and struggled his way out of Johns grasp, backing up slowly until there was a couch between them. 

“What's wrong?” John asked, “Is it ‘cause I tried to interfere? I'm sorry, I wasn't really thinking I just—” 

“No, this isn't right!” Wilbur cried hysterically. “I'm not me! I mean, I am me, I'm just not the me you know! Who are—Oh, shit we’ve—we’ve— 

Johns heart sunk into his stomach, wondering if the world was so cruel to trick him like this. Then, suddenly he was filled with a righteous fury as he correctly guessed his partners line of thought and snapped, “Oh, so after two years of living together, you've finally decided that's it, then? Now you regret us being together, is that it?” 

“Yes—no! That's not exactly it, I'm just not me, I can't—everything is wrong—He said—he said—Black and White…gateway…gatekeeper…” 

He had begun rocking and John felt bad for yelling at him after what might have been a harrowing trip into the unknown. Still, he couldn't help but feel slightly hysterical himself and he wailed, “You're not making any sense!” 

“What year is it?” Wilbur asked suddenly. 

“What the hell kind of question is that?” John exclaimed, exasperated, feeling frayed to his wits end. 

“What year is it?” Wilbur growled, grabbing his partner by his collar, looking positively unhinged. 

“2007!” John exclaimed, pulling himself from the man's grip. 

“2007…2007…damn, how in the world…? There was the bookshop, and those winged bastards….” He cut off suddenly, moving about the apartment, ransacking everything. 

“What on Earth is wrong with you?” John asked, but he received no answer. 

Over the next few days, Wilbur acted very strange. He hardly acknowledged John, favoring to pace about the apartment restlessly, rambling things under his breath that made no sense. He kept looking things up on the computer, and wouldn't tell John what he was doing. At one point the man spent hours looking for his phone, and when he found it he flipped it open, pushed a few buttons, and then threw it at the wall where it smashed to pieces. And he just stood there, panting heavily, glaring at the thing as though he could set it on fire if he stared hard enough. 

But the strangest thing was that when they got to work, he acted as though nothing was wrong at all. He even seemed more charming than normal, smirking to himself as he spoke to people. With all that his mind had seemed to fall to pieces at home, the man seemed to have pulled it back together enough to be convincing to their coworkers. 

The whole ordeal with Hatchetfield was still an open case, so it wasn't all that strange that Wilbur managed to arrange for himself to return there—though John noted that he hadn't been included in the plan. Still, John had a bad feeling about all this, so he included himself. When Wilbur had gone down to the car at work, he found John already sitting in the drivers seat. 

“Well, get in,” John said. “I thought we were going to Hatchetfield.” 

“ _I_ was going to Hatchetfield,” Wilbur disagreed after sliding into the passenger seat. John ignored him, and instead put the car in gear and headed towards the highway. 

Once they were going, John asked, “Why exactly did you want to go there?” 

“I have to go back.” 

“You have to go back to _Hatchetfield_?” 

Wilbur gave him a long look, and for once didn't look manic. He looked solemn, almost sad, and asked, “You really cared for hi— _me_ , didn't you?” 

“I still do,” John protested in confusion. They didn't say anything else for the rest of the trip. 

They got to the abandoned mall and Wilbur swung out of the car, making his way toward the door. John couldn't help but notice that he was walking strange—as if he had too many bones in his body and didn't quite know what to do with them. John lingered to think for only a moment, and the he was hurrying to catch up to his taller, leggier friend. 

They went through the lower doors, down the hall and into the biggest department store. Jog had a bad feeling about where this was going, and the feeling turned to dread as they reached the door to a worker's room. A door he had been at not too long ago. 

They went in the room and found it empty, though the portal was up and running again. Likely the scientists had been trying to do more tests on it without disturbing it. In front of the portal, Wilbur turned back to him. 

“You loved me,” he said. “So, it's only fair I explain.” 

Wilbur was silhouetted against the light of the postal, so John couldn't make out his expression at all. He reached out for his partner. 

“I don't understand.” 

“I am not Wilbur. I mean I kind of am, but I never was and never will again be Wilbur Cross. I can't stay here. I'll go mad. Hell, I will probably go mad there too, but I have to go back. He told me—he told me—and I mean it won't be my favorite but I've done this before.” 

“Please,” John begged. “Don't do this! We can fix this! You could go to a doctor! Or you could just tell me what you sent through in there.” 

“You don't want to know what happened in there. Really,” Wilbur said in a teasing tone. He turned to the portal. “Don't wait up.” 

And then he was gone. 

......... 

Lex struggled as she and her boss were led through the dark mall. As they walked, she could just make out a wavering voice as it echoed off the hard walls, “Friends! Neighbors! Fellow citizens of Hatchetfield! My name is Sherman Young. One hundred and sixty-eight hours ago, I came to this mall to wait in line for a Wiggly! Throughout that time, I ate nothing but snacks packed in a cooler by my mother and defecated into a bucket—all so that I would not lose my place in line. If all had gone as planned, I would now be the proud owner of eight hundred and fifty Wigglys! Yet, after today’s great battle I stand her like you—empty handed! And yet my heart swells with humility and joy! I came here in search of a doll, but what I found was something far greater! Faith! In the one true god! All hail Wiggly!”

They had been taken from Toyzone into the main area of the mall. There was an open area that led to shops. Directly overhead lay a similarly open space, on the second floor, which was lined with railings. On one side of the second level open floor was the food court. On the other side was Marshalls. The man who was speaking stood in front of Marshalls looking down at a mass of people who had gathered in the open area below. 

These people began chanting riotously. The hairs on Lex’s neck stood up. 

“Wiggly is good!” 

“Wiggly is just!” 

“If we have faith, we will be rewarded with a cuddly toy!” 

“Yesss! Brothers and sisters!” Sherman Young called. “We have seized control of Lakeside Mall. Let it be a New Jerusalem! And from it, we shall march forth and conquer the earth! All hail Wiggly!” 

The people began chanting again. 

“Wiggly! Wiggly! Wiggly!” 

“Yess, yes! Now bring forth—the infidels!” 

The men that had been manhandling them shoved them into the open area. 

“Let me go, you nutbags, you crazy—!” Frank shouted as he was dragged. 

The crowd parted for them, forming a ring around them, giving them a wide berth. Lex and Frank fell onto the ground on their knees, their hands tied behind them with zipties. 

“Frank,” Lex snapped, “if anything happens to my sister, I swear to God—” 

“Silence, heathens!” the crazie above them squealed. 

The crowd began shouting again, throwing things at them. There was food from the food court, toys, nail polish, you name it. What they were screaming terrified her, though. 

“Kill them!” 

“ _FUCKING KILL THEM_!” 

“No, no, friendy-wends!” Sherman Young chastised. “They face not your judgement but that of She Ordained by the Highest god—the Prophet—the Motherrr—Mommyyyyy!” 

The crazy, balding man bowed out of the way as a woman emerged from Marshalls. She had a triumphant look on her face as she looked down upon them and smiled as she talked into the phone held up to her ear, “Yes, they’re talking about me, Gerald. I dislike that word, Gerald, _cult_ . No, it’s a new _exciting_ religion that _I_ started! Well, of course you can come inside and support me. But before you do, you should know that my first act as Divine Prophet was to set fire to the Ceennabon as a sacrifice to a dark god. Oh, _now_ you’d rather stay outside and keep the car warm!” 

The woman scoffed. 

“Hold on.” 

She looked down upon them, a gentle (though mad) look gracing her face as she said in a serene, breathy voice, “Yes, I am the Divine Prophet. I have gazed into the face of god. He had chosen me to usher in his reign and give him life, but—ah, how lord? Your voice is so far away I cannot hear it! I need a vessel filled with your essence! To guide your people, to let your will be known!” Lex watched her dither about incredulously, her eyebrows raised high. The woman’s voice deepened as she sung out madly, “I _neeeeed_ a Wiggly doll...Ideally four of them....” 

“Listen, lady, you want a Wiggly doll?” Frank cried out. “I can get you a Wiggly doll! Straight from the manufacturer at wholesale prices!” 

The woman cackled and walked down the dead escalators that stood in front of Marshalls. “We have no need for your _manufacturers_ ! Because brothers and sisters, there is still one Wiggly left in this mall... _I can feel it!_ The only hope for extending your worthless life if to tell me...” She pulled a box cutter out of her purse. “Where is that doll?” 

“I don’t know!” Frank said frantically. “You saw it yourself, those animals took ‘em all. Please, let me go, _for the love of God!_ ” 

"I’ve met god,” she said coldly. “He had nothing nice to say about you.” 

With that she sliced the box cutter across his throat and his hands feebly flew up to the spot in an attempt to staunch the blood that began pouring through his fingers. Lex gasped in shock. Sure, Frank was awful and she hated him but...did he really deserve to die? 

“Frank!” she cried, trying to make her way towards her boss who lay bleeding out on the floor. The woman swooped in, grabbing her head and holding the cutter up to Lex’s throat. 

“Now, you listen to me, you little tramp,” she hissed. “Now, I know you know where that Wiggly is! I can smell him on you. It’s perfume to that trailer trash stench!” 

The woman got up and moved back a little, allowing Lex to shout out aggressively, “I have no idea what you’re talking about! You people are so fucked up!” 

“She has the lying tongue of a sneeeeeaaaaaaaaake!” a voice interrupted. They turned to see that a security guard had entered the circle. “I’ve seen it, brothers and sisters, on the security camera footage! This witch stole a Wiggly doll, and put it in the backpack of a little girl with pigtails and a baseball cap!” 

Lex’s heart sunk. She’d know that description anywhere. 

“No, no, no, no!” she screamed, pleading. “ _Please!_ Don’t hurt my sister, Hannah, _please!_ ” 

The woman was not listening. She turned to the crowd and shrieked, “This little girl stands between you are your god! Sally forth in the name of Wiggly! _Bring me the child!_ ” 

......... 

Lex’s pleading voice bounced around Hannah’s head and she looked about wildly, crying, “Lexi?!” 

The girl had sat in one of the tunnels of the play-place for a while, and when her part of the mall had grown quiet, she had snuck down and sat on the floor beside the mouth of the slide. She sat there, rocking, wondering what she was supposed to do. Ethan was gone. Lex was presumably still here somewhere—out in the danger, by the sounds of it. Webby was being awfully silent. She had been ever since Ethan— 

A voice interrupted her thoughts, low and eerie, calling out in the darkness. 

“Hannah!” The voice snarled. “Hannnaaah. Hannnaaaahhhhhh.” 

“Webby!” Hannah cried, hugging her knees. “I’m scared.” 

“What’s shakin’ banana?” Hannah looked up to see Ethan sitting atop the tunnel, his legs swinging in open air. But, no, it couldn’t be him! 

“Ethan?” she asked tearfully. 

“Who else?” He laughed oddly. She cowered. “Ah, don’t be scared Hannah it’s safe to come out now. Do I gotta put a leash on you?” 

“No,” Hannah shook her head. He was trying to trick her. She knew it was still dangerous out there. “Webby says.... you died.” 

He laughed, and choked, and nodded, “I did.” It didn’t seem right at all. People didn’t laugh about dying, did they? 

“Huh?” she asked, confused. Her cheeks grew wet from the tears. 

“Oh, don’t be so mushy, banana,” Ethan said in that twisted voice. “Dying ain’t so bad. I’m in the Black and White now. It’s realll nice. It’s just like California! It never rains.” 

“Not Ethan!” Hannah cried. “Liar! Bad double...” Her hands went up to her head and she began rocking. 

“ **You know they’re comin’ for you, Hannah!** ” Not-Ethan growled wildly. “There’s only one thing you can do. You’ve got to give that doll to a woman in a **_black cape_**. She’s real nice. _I swear on my own grave_.” 

“Not Ethan!" Hannah’s cries turned into sobs and she collapsed entirely in a puddle of limbs and tears as Ethan’s ghost disappeared into the black. Then, she ripped open the backpack and pulled out the doll within, staring at it’s ugly little face and terrifying eyes. “It’s you!” 

“Hel-lo, Han-nah!” Wiggly said. “Let’s be pally-wals. Don’t you want to tickle my tumsy-wumsy?” 

_“Wiggly...tricks...”_

“No!” the girl exclaimed. “Webby says you’re bad! She says you'll trick me.” 

“Wellllll,” Wiggly drawled. “Webby is a stu-pid _bitch_! _You_ could have served me _will_ ingly, but you're being a _rot_ -ten _lit_ -tle ba- _nan_ -na. _I’m G_ oing to have to _Peel_ you. _I’m_ Going Split-you-in-two! _I’m_ Going to E _at_ you, Han-nah. I’m going to eat you _riiiight_ the _fuuuuuuck_ **_uuuuuuuup_ **.” 

Hannah screamed, threw the doll, and began sobbing raggedly once more. She cried and cried until a sound interrupted her sobs. She looked up to see a man and a woman. Not knowing whether they were friend or foe, Hannah snatched up the Wiggly doll and ran to hide behind the slide. 

“Tom, look it’s a little girl!” the woman pointed out. She stared, as if in a trance. “And she’s got a Wiggly doll.” 

“Don’t listen to him!” Hannah told them. “He’s bad, he’ll trick you!” 

As usual, the grownups didn’t listen. They exchanged eerie smiles, and the man said placatingly, “Oh, don’t worry about us, kid. We don’t get tricked. We’re grownups.” 

“You can trust us,” the woman said slowly. “We’re good people.” 

Hannah decided there was something wrong with these people. Maybe it would be better if she waited outside the mall. All the bad stuff seemed to be going down in it. She didn’t think she could make it to California by herself, but if Lex never came out, she may have to. With that, she attempted to bolt past the adults towards the doors in the food court. 

“Woah, woah, wait! Where you goin’ sweetheart?” the woman asked. 

“California,” Hannah swallowed, looking up at them. She just had to edge around them, and she could make a clean break for the door. 

“Did you hear that Becky?” The man asked. “She’s going to Californiaaa.” 

“Land of Hollywood! And movie stars...” They both turned and looked at her with those creepy smiles. She eyed the door longingly. 

“That’s an awful long way to go,” the man said with a smile. “And that doll looks really heavy. Why don’t you hand it over?” 

“Uh-uh,” she shook her head, clutching the doll. She knew if they got it, Wiggly would just taint them more than he already had. They would become like the crazy people out there in the mall who were forming a cult. 

She began backing away. If she couldn’t get past them to the door, she could always climb up into the small kiddie tunnels that the adults wouldn’t be able to fit in. The man noticed. 

“Why are you backing away from me, kid?” He asked. “I’m not gonna hurt you! Listen, I've been through hell today trying to get one of those dolls—for my son? He’s about your age. I’ll do anything for him. Any goddamn thing.” He trailed off, looking to the side for a long moment, and then turned back to him. His face was suddenly twisted. “Even if it means pounding the guts outta some little twerp! Now give me that _fuckin’ doll!_ ” 

“ _No!_ ” she screamed, taking that as her cue to Get the Fuck Away. She ran to the play area and hoisted herself up in a tunnel, scrambling along on her hands and knees towards an area she could sit in and wait it out. 

“Tom, how could you?” the woman shouted below. “You let her get away! You really are a fucking idiot, aren’t you?” 

“I didn’t see you comin’ up with any bright ideas, cheer captain!” 

“You don’t scream at a child, it frightens them! You lure them in delicately. And you put them to sleep.” 

“Yeah, smart.” 

The two set off, calling to her, trying to get her to come out. Then, they moved around, trying to find a way up. Hannah heard the woman getting closer and scooted away from the noise. She peered out of the window to see that the woman had climbed into the tunnel after all. Hannah scrambled the other way towards the slide. 

She went down the slide, ready to bolt to the door. She could see it. She had a clear path. She leapt out of the slide and a pair of arms caught her midair. She screamed and kicked, but was pulled to the ground by the man. The woman had shown up and had a sharp needle in her hand. She brought it down hard, and there was the sound of it going into flesh—though Hannah felt nothing. 

“Oh, shit! It’s in my leg!” the woman cried hoarsely. There must have been a strong sedative in that vial, because the woman’s eyes started rolling and she began sinking down onto the ground over Hannah. The man stepped forward to grab the Wiggly. Hannah protested and clung on with all her might, but the doll was soon wrenched out of her grasp. 

“I’ve got it!” the man exclaimed. “You’re mine now! And I’m gonna tickle your belly-well.” 

“Ha-ha-ha-hic, ha-ha-ha-hic!” Wiggly laughed. “That tickles.” 

“Hey, Tom...half of that...is mine,” the woman said, only half awake. She was draped over Hannah at this point. 

“I’m sorry, babe. No dice. But don’t worry, we’ll get you another one later. But right now, I think you need a nap.” 

He patted her on the leg and moved swiftly towards the exit in the mall nearest Toyzone—nearest his car. The woman moaned incoherently, and her full weight finally fell on Hannah’s legs and midsection. The girl cried out in pain, attempting to move, but she was pinned down. 

Not even a second passed after the man disappeared when more voices arrived. The mall cop had shown up with some others, shouting, “Look! In the food court! The little girl with the backpack!” They ran over and looked down at her and the woman. “And who’s this?” 

“Her protector,” the other man remarked. He had large, wire rimmed glasses, a golden ear piece, and there was a tie tied around his head like a bandanna. He looked insane. 

“Another heathen no doubt,” the cop said. “Bring her as well. The Prophet shall bathe in the blood of the unfaithful. Joyous dayy!” 

With that, the woman was pulled off of Hannah and the girl was grabbed and dragged away, kicking and screaming once more. 

......... 

“All right, Mr. President. Beginning inter-dimensional convergence with the Black and White,” John McNamara informed Howard Goodman, powering up the machine. They had outfitted the president in what looked like a space suit, which was lined with lead. After thirteen years, they had studied the portal enough to know a few things—like how a person would be unable to cross over without being killed or driven mad. That was what the suit was for—the help prevent that sort of thing. 

“I don’t know about this, John,” the president was panting. His eyes were dilated. John had a feeling the man was at least mildly claustrophobic, and was panicking just from being enclosed in a helmet. “Foreign policy was never my strong suit!” 

Of course, he might also have been panicking because the most top-secret organization in America was sending him out of their world to bargain with an evil, eldritch god. 

“We’re not sending you in there half-cocked, sir,” John cajoled him. “We have a hydrogen bomb ready to deploy into the Black and White if need be.” 

“Oh, God, I feel like I’m gonna puke,” Goodman moaned, bending over and breathing heavily onto his helmet. The machine, which had been taking the time to warm up, caused a spark that looked like the air itself was cleaving in two. A rift of green light formed in its wake, expanding until it was a circular disk that hung in the air. 

“Mr. President,” McNamara said soothingly, “the greatest strategic value of nuclear weapons has always been deterrence. Wiggly is a being who has never contemplated his own annihilation. If threatened with such, he may retreat from this reality.” 

John gestured to man towards the portal. “Good luck,” he said, “And Godspeed.” 

Howard Goodman stepped into the portal and disappeared. When he came out on the other side, he felt as though he suddenly had gone blind. The darkness was so complete and all encompassing. “Breathe...” he muttered, trying to get a hold of himself. "Breathe...breathe...” 

“ _Mr. President, do you copy?_ ” came the crackle of a radio in his headset. Howard almost cried in relief that he wasn’t entirely alone. 

“Yeah, John, I hear ya!” he gasped, his voice sounding strained, nervous, and relieved all at once. 

“ _What do you see?_ ” John asked slowly. 

“I—see...” Howard replied, turning to look about and see if he could spot anything. No such luck. "Blackness. Endless blackness.” 

He continued to look about in the hopes of seeing something—anything. PEIP was convinced Wiggly was in this place...so, where was he? Deciding to chance it, Howard called out weakly, “Hello? Hellooo? My name is Howard Goodman. I’m President of the United States of America...Earth? I demand to speak to the entity known as Wiggly!” 

At receiving no response, he whined into his headset, “... _there’s nothing here!_ ” 

A voice came out of the darkness, teasing, unhinged. “Howie...” It said, and then repeated in a deeper, growling voice. “ _Howwwwwieeee_.” 

“Hello?” Howard cried. 

“ _Howie,_ ” came the voice again in a not-quite response. 

“For _God’s sake,_ _what do you want_?” the president called out into the darkness. 

Crackle came over his headset once more and John’s voice cut in loud and clear. “ _Calm down, Mr. President. You have to_ \--” 

His voice was cut off suddenly as the radio warbled and staticked as though something was interfering. The president smacked his helmet and pressed buttons to try to get the general back, but was only greeted by the sound of static. 

“I’m sorry—I can’t hear you!” He called out. “I can’t—can anyone hear me?” 

“How you doin’ there Howie?” a voice said calmly, from outside his helmet. Howard Goodman turned to see a man standing amidst the darkness. It was at this point that the president realized that this place wasn’t dark. It was empty. Empty of everything including light and a ground to stand on. The only exceptions were himself and the man standing opposite him, who was leaning on empty air. 

“Who are you?” Howard asked. 

The man didn’t reply, only bit into a green apple that he held in his hand. Amidst chews, he asked, “Do you know why it had to be a doll?” 

Howard stared at him. 

“It all boils down to belief,” the man told him in a deep, casual voice. “It’s a powerful thing. You see, people don’t believe in governments anymore. No matter who the masses vote for, they always get the same thing. The poor get poorer, and the rich—well, they just get rich.” 

This last statement was punctuated by the man gesturing up and down with his finger. 

“Swamped in _student debt, credit card debt, medical bills!_ The people have been _abandoned_ by _everything_! Everything except...” It was disturbing how quickly the man’s voice went from low and smooth to loud and growling and then back again. He trailed off and dropped down into a crouch, fixing the president with wild-eyed, shit-eating grin, “products!” 

The man let out a long, wheezing laugh that turned into a series of chuckles, before he shouted, “That’s the only comfort they have left! **_And you!_ ** The President of the United States. You were Wiggly’s greatest ally.” 

The man took another bite of his apple, chewing it obviously as he stared Howard down. 

“No!” Howard protested weakly. “That’s not true! I can't be evil. I’m a status quo democrat!” 

“Only in America could Wiggly take root,” the stranger’s voice rang out. He tossed the apple into the darkness, and it disappeared with a blink of light. “Do you think that in the Netherlands, they’d give a shit about some toy? _No_ , they’re too busy enjoying their _paid vacations and the_ ** _free health care!_ ** _You_ empowered Wiggly. _You_ invited him in. And now _your_ comin’ to _his house—to make demands_ ** _of him?_ **” 

The man’s face grew serious and he stuck Howard with a pinning stare as he continued, "You thought that you could outsmart the very thing that runs the blood of your kind. You're sick with greed and a lust _—_ For that you will give up your will and your pride.” 

The man spread his arms, and shouted, “You’re hoping to be saved no matter what you have raised _—Behold the depths of_ ** _depravity_ ** _and decay.”_ His voice grew quieter as his lifted up a wrist and pointed to the watch that sat there. “It happened on your watch; your time is running out before worlds collide.” 

He grabbed Howard by the collar and began forcibly dragging him at that point. Howard tried to protest, but the man wasn’t even listening. Rather, he continued to ramble on. 

“You went and opened the box,” he said. “And then it came in a slick little package that drove you insane—cause your thirst for _sssstuffff_ is never _sslaked_ . Now the end is nigh the apocalypse here in a package that’s not what it appears. _You may ask why the doll_ , well, that’s all it takes when you’re **_made in America_**.” 

He had walked and dragged Howard, and the darkness made it seem like they weren’t going anywhere at all. Then, suddenly a mass of green forms seemed to materialize around them. The stranger gestured round and spread his arms wide, a twisted smile on his face as he said, “Welcome to Wiggly’s shop, your America assembly line. We’ve got _toys_ and _trucks_ and **_big fat butts_ ** that’ll help you pass the time. _Hey kids_ , you know that you grow up with all the **_crap_ ** you want. Just sprinkle it with dust and a **_gob of fucking lust_ ** and you wave your world goodbye...” 

They seemed to be in some sort of construct of a room. There appeared to be walls around them, but Howard found that the longer he looked at them, the more they seemed to fade away. All around them were a slew of strange creatures—they looked almost like humans, but their teeth were entirely too sharp, their eyes glowed, they had claws for fingers, and green antennae. Each one was carrying a Wiggly doll. Sometimes the dolls would disappear much like the apple had, and the creatures would weave their hands with grins and spin a new one out of nothing. 

And then Howard Goodman laid eyes on the pride of all the Black and White (or, at least, half of it). Wiggly, in all his glory. It was horrifying. The being was so huge, Howard could only make out the face, which filled his whole vision. There were trails of green tentacles, covered in a haze. And then, there was a pair of large, bulbous, luminous eyes. Not pinpricks—these were whole dinner plates of pure white light. Howard began shaking in his proverbial boots. 

“Hello, Mr. Prezzy-wez,” the monstrosity said in a high-pitched, childlike voice. As it spoke, its tentacles wiggled. “ _Wel_ -come to _Drowsy_ Town!” 

“It’s you!” Howard cried, knowing this couldn’t be anyone other than the god Wiggly that he had come here to threaten. Only, threatening sounded like quite a poor idea once he was faced with the beast. 

“Don’t be Fright-ened,” Wiggly said in a warm voice. It was the kind of voice where you could hear the grin behind it. It didn’t make him feel better. “You’re my _Best-_ est Buddy-Wud!” 

“ _No!_ ” Howard screamed. “No, I’ve come here to tell you—to leave us alone!” 

The creature laughed madly. Its laugh was a horrible conglomeration of chuckles and wheezes that sounded something like, “ _Ha-ha-ha-hic, ha-ha-ha-hic, ha-ha-ha-hic!_ _Lee_ eave? Just be-fore _Christ_ -mas? It’s _Go_ -ing to be my _Birth_ -day, you know. I Wouldn’t Want to miss out on _O_ -pening all my presents. I _think_ I’ll start _with_ —Y _ou_.” As Wiggly said this, a chorus of the strange humanoid creatures surrounded the president and he let out a wail of pure terror. “I’m _Go_ -ing to _Cut O_ -pen your _Belly-Well_ , and _deeeeck the halllls with your_ **_gutsy-wutsiessssss_ **....” 

A clear, confident voice cut through the terror, and Howard latched onto it with the desperation of a man whose life was flashing before his eyes. 

“ _Enough!_ ” 

The president looked up to see John McNamara standing before them. Surrounding him was the one spot of light. His hair was shining, glowing lighter and lighter, making it look like the sun was shining out of his hair. In his hand was a sword, and flames licked along the blade. 

“John!” Howard cried in relief. 

Behind the president, the being who had once been known as Wilbur blanched at the sight of a face that he hadn’t seen in thirteen years. His features twisted in pain, and he growled with a point, “ ** _YOU!_ **” 

“Your minions may do me no harm, Wiggly, for I cut through them with a blade of truth,” McNamara said quickly. He threw the flaming sword and it flew in an arc towards Howard. The strange creatures ran away with high pitched squeals. “Begone!” 

The sword landed at Howard’s feet (there was no clatter, there was no floor here, after all), and the flames snuffed out. The president looked up at the general with a stricken face and called out, “I’m sorry, John, I fucked it up!” 

“Don’t worry Mr. President,” McNamara said gently, his face seeming to glow with kindness amidst the gloom. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.” 

John ushered him away from Wiggly and his followers, and paused at the sound of a voice behind them. “It’s too late John!” the man who had once been Wilbur shouted. John stood frozen, in place, a stony expression on his face that hid the pain in his eyes. “Wiggly’s prophet has been chosen, and as soon as she has a doll, she will bring about his birth.” 

The president, noticing that his aide had come to a halt, turned and found Wiley speaking directly to him this time, “You opened a box—a doll came out, and it’s a touchdown soon to erase any doubt. That is all you need, to fill your heart! Now the end is nigh, the apocalypse here in a package that prays on the worst of your fears. The gambit is done! A work of art—that was made in America!” 

McNamara grabbed Howard and pushed him into the darkness. The stocky, dark haired man was glad that the general seemed to know where he was going—because of the ever-expansive darkness, it was hard to tell if they were coming back where they came from, or were heading deeper and deeper into the void. He glanced behind them, and was briefly aware that the humanoid creatures were chasing them, though Wiley was missing. 

Ahead of them, a small pinprick of light grew before their eyes. John spotted it and ran even faster. Once it was evident that they were indeed looking at a rift between universes, the general called out, “There! The portal! You must go, Mr. President. Go now!” 

“What about you?” Howard asked. He finally turned to look at John, and found his answer even as the man replied. 

“Return is no longer an option for me. Without a suit, my body has already begun to dematerialize. My spirit will be absorbed into the Black and White,” John told him. Indeed, as the president looked at him, it seemed like his hands were being eaten away. “I’ll see what I can do from here.” 

General John McNamara gave him a salute, and a very sincere, “It’s been an honor to serve.” 

Howard’s hand came up to his forehead almost of his own volition, and he gave the general a bewildered, “Sure.” With that, he ran into the portal. The Sniggles chased after him, circling around the portal. John McNamara watched, and then turned to look over his shoulder. There, standing behind him with a sword tucked against his side, was Wilbur—or what looked like Wilbur, anyway. 

The two stared at each other. Not-Wilbur's eyes roving across John’s form. The man’s hands had disappeared entirely, reaching all the way up to his shoulders. His legs had disappeared as well, leaving only his chest and his head. The man’s hair seemed to be growing shorter as it was eaten by the darkness, though it was still glowing a blinding white. Blue eyes shown as they took in Wilbur. Then, as the darkness reached the man’s chest, he cried, " ** _NO!_** ” and exploded in a ray of light. 

Not-Wilbur was blasted back and rolled an indefinite distance—seeing as they were in a void, there wasn’t really such thing as distance. He grunted in pain and looked up to see a brightly shining form before him, and his eyes widened at the multiple heads and four wings. 

He had found him, and he had been in front of him the whole time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters to go! We got to see more of Wilbur and John's history (and we'll also get a bit more on that in the next chapter). This chapter has some of my favorite lines out of all Starkid (the ones involving economy, at least). Usually I paraphrase or leave out songs in a story adaptation, but Wiley is supposed to be crazy, so him having a rambling, rhyming speech didn't seem out of character in the slightest. If you want more Wilbur and John (and if you want some action from Aziraphale and Crowley), just follow the story, leave a review, and maybe a kudo or two!  
> P.S. I used this old mall that shut down in my town years back as inspiration for the mall used by PEIP. There was about a year before this mall shut down where it was like a ghost mall. It was super creepy and had cracked ceilings and water damage and plaster on the floor. Ahh, that was a fun time.  
> Anyway.
> 
> Later, sluts!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the beginning of where Crowley and Aziraphale show up. If there are any people reading this who aren't aware of Good Omens...uh, I tried to explain everything I could and there are mild (but not very detailed) spoilers in this chapter. While those two Good Omens goons show up, Black Friday stuff shows back up in full force in the last couple of scenes. For the most part, this is a breather chapter.
> 
> Next update, we will be back to the action!

On June 13, 2941, the demon Crowley died—at precisely 5:29 in the evening (plus eighteen seconds). He and his angel had been lulled into a false sense of security after several hundred years passed from the time their respective headquarters had attempted to execute them. The two celestials had kept expecting the world to end—though it never did—and after long enough, the pair decided that they must have scared off Heaven and Hell for good. 

Crowley could remember it vividly. Aziraphale’s bookshop had been long closed, and they had moved several times due to their surroundings changing. In the end, the pair had moved into Tadfield, which never changed. The angel and demon had been in their cottage in Tadfield when They had arrived. 

A legion of demons and angels, working together with the sole goal of ending Aziraphale and Crowley. Crowley might have made some whippy remark if it weren’t for the grave situation. 

Aziraphale was the one who answered the door, expecting a package of books and finding himself instead staring into a pair of purple eyes. They sat within a perfectly chiseled face, underneath neat brown hair—those features could belong to only one being. It was Gabriel, the youngest and most vocal of all the archangels over their distaste for Aziraphale the Cherub. 

“What is it, angel?” Crowley asked, sauntering into the foyer only to be greeted by the same sight. With the reflexes of a snake, Crowley pulled Aziraphale away from the door. 

“Now is that how you greet your old coworkers, Principality?” Gabriel asked with that smarmy smirk of his. Behind him were Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon. Crowley turned to make a break for it, only to find his way blocked by demons—they had likely burrowed out of the ground, as per usual, and snuck in the back. It was at this point Crowley pondered upon, and just as swiftly dismissed, that specific whippy remark. 

He turned back to the angels, who were holding swords. Gabriel held up the sword in his hand as he caught the demon looking at it, and said, “Look familiar, Aziraphale? It’s yours. You really should have kept a better eye on it all these years.” 

Anger flared within Crowley like a raging forest fire that gripped at his heart and clawed through his stomach. The archangel was, of course, referring to the sword that Aziraphale had been issued to guard the Garden of Eden with. Crowley could still vividly remember that day nearly seven thousand years ago that he glimpsed the young and innocent angel standing on the wall with his pale white hair shining in the sun, his hand noticeably missing something. 

“ _Didn’t you have a flaming sword?_ ” 

“ _I gave it away..._ ” 

That had been the day the Serpent of Eden had fell in love with Aziraphale. His lovely, _wonderful_ angel who gave his flaming sword to the humans who had been banished from the garden despite orders, only caring for the two creatures the Almighty had made. 

“My, has it nearly been seven thousand?” Michael asked in her high, breathy voice. “The Earth is positively ancient.” 

“About time it ended,” Uriel said unemotionally. 

“And about time we got rid of _you_ ,” Hastur, Duke of Hell, growled from behind Beelzebub. 

Crowley saw it happening before Aziraphale did. Flames began sparking down the blade that the demon felt on a spiritual level, and he shoved himself in front of the angel just as Gabriel thrust the sword forward. Pain exploded in his midsection and radiated outwards, until the righteous flame filled his entire body, warring with his demon essence. 

He was barely aware of an explosion of light and the room tilting wildly. Then, he was looking at Aziraphale’s eyes--they seemed oddly wet—and a pair of hands caught him and lowered him to the ground. The demon let out a breathy smile, staring into those blue eyes. And that was the last Crowley had known. 

For a while, that is. 

......... 

Not many know what happens to ethereal beings when they die—actually die, that is. Angels and demons (which were ultimately made of the same stock) were not immortal. The only being who was truly immortal was the Almighty Herself. Sure, angels were resilient—if they were killed in a body, the body would die and they would be sent to an office in the sky or in the ground, depending. They could always be assigned new bodies. 

Crowley and Aziraphale had taken care of their corporations for nearly seven thousand years, and were quite proud of that fact, thank you very much. 

But angels _can_ die. Actually die, where they leave the plane of existence all together. This would have to be possible, of course, owing to the planned battle between Heaven and Hell in the end days. The most obvious course of action was Holy Water and Hell Fire, but those hadn’t quite been fashioned when the earliest angels rebelled, and the first battle had been waged. Back then, they had had ethereal weapons that would affect a being at its core level. 

Aziraphale’s sword was a prime example—gifted to him during the war, assigned for him to use to guard the East Gate of the first garden, and subsequently given away to the first humans. 

Aziraphale’s sword, which had stabbed Crowley right in the middle. 

The important thing, however, is that the afterlife is for humans. Not ethereal beings. This is why no one quite knows what happens when an angel or demon dies. Most figure that the being just...ceases to exist. That they have no sense of consciousness, no presence in any way in Heaven, Hell, or anything in between. 

These theories would be wrong. 

Of course, when Crowley first opened his eyes after dying, he briefly thought the theories were correct, for a moment (that brief moment when one first wakes up and doesn’t have a thought in their head. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that he was utterly surrounded by a vast expanse of Black). Then, everything came flooding into his head all at once and he felt as though he had been cleaved in two. 

Crowley couldn’t have been able to tell anyone what his name was, where he was from, or which way was up or down in those first few moments. 6,945 years’ worth of memories would do that to any sort of being, quasi-immortal or not. Everything was just flashing in his mind, appearing and disappearing with no semblance of order. These moments could have lasted less than a second or eons—he would never know exactly how long he stood there before he truly gained consciousness. 

When Crowley did become aware of himself, truly waking up, he still couldn’t put his mind back together, but decided there were more pressing issues. The most pressing issue, for example, was very evident in that he was completely surrounded by Nothing. Well, not entirely. There was a bit of something before him, and it was growing bigger. Moments later, Crowley found himself face to face with a what looked like a giant, green squid-bear with luminous, bulbous eyes. And in one of its tentacles was grasped a screaming man. 

A screaming man who was growing tentacles and claws before his very eyes. 

The scream trailed off into silence, and then the man’s eyes opened, glowing an eerie green. The giant monster set the man down and shooed him away. Then, it said, “ _Hel_ -lo _Wi_ -ley. _Wel_ -come to _Drowsy_ Town.” 

“Who— _What_ are you?” Crowley asked. 

“ _I_ am a _Gate_ keep-er ,” the thing said. “ _You_ may _call_ me Wiggly. I have _great plans_. I have a Feel-ing you and I will be Pally-Wals.” 

“Nah,” Crowley shook his head. Some of his memories were working enough for him to be able to find himself on solid ground. “You don’t intimidate me in the slightest. I think I’m gonna go back.” 

Crowley turned around, where he could see a rift in the distance. He headed for it, ignoring Wiggly’s words of, “You’ll re-turn, _Wi_ -ley. I am _sure_ of that. I will a- _wait_ you _eagerly_!” 

The only thing Crowley managed to wonder about before he stepped into the portal was...why had the thing called him _Wiley?_

Crowley stumbled out of the portal and into a black room. He almost groaned in frustration. His only saving grace was the fact that everything in the room was washed with a faint green glow, which disappeared seconds later. In that split second, he had caught sight of guns trained on him. 

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Crowley exclaimed, his hands going up. He may have been a demon for six thousand years, but he had no idea what would happen to him now if he were to be discorporated. As he stood there in the dark, but a tangible dark at least, his mind began catching up to him, and he finally remembered his last memory—his death. 

“Am I dead?” he whispered to himself, looking about. The place he had just been in had been so surreal that he hadn’t even contemplated the thought. He felt pretty alive. And if it was unsurreal enough for him to be contemplating his existence, then maybe he was still on earth. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a form hugging him, and he stiffened in surprise. The form let go and muttered an apology. Crowley groaned, still trying to sort out his head. A light flicked on—a flashlight—and he felt the light like a knife stab to the back of his eyeballs. The demon shut his eyes and rubbed his temples in response. 

He opened them again when he began to be questioned. The demon took in the sight of a dimly lit room full of humans and almost collapsed in relief. The only problem was that there was something conspicuously missing—or _someone,_ really. 

“Where’s Michael?” an unfamiliar voice asked. 

“Who?” Crowley asked, his brain hoping to anything that they weren’t referring to the angel Michael. He thought about her face as he had been stabbed. He didn’t want to see her again, thank you very much. 

“Michael Brown?” the one nearest him questioned incredulously. “The man you went after? The reason you went in there in the first place?” 

Crowley desperately tried to remember anything that had led him to this place, but his brain was still trying to wrap its head around his death and not much else. Though, as he thought back, perhaps he did know who they were talking about. He did remember seeing a man in _that_ place. A man who had screamed and turned into something else entirely. 

“Yeah, he’s gone. Back there, somewhere,” he muttered, gesturing over his shoulder. The men gaped at him. He had a feeling that he was doing quite poorly at whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. 

He was questioned a bit more, but his body seemed to be as much out of it as his brain. He hardly registered anything and stumbled a bit. Finally, he was given an excuse to get out of there and it came in the form of the man that had been closest to him during the exchange. They climbed into a car—Crowley only managing to do so after the other man had given him an expectant look before sliding into the driver’s seat. 

The car got moving, and Crowley’s hands twitched as he thought about his Bentley. That thought sparked another slew of memories. He ignored the nervous looks he was receiving from the other man in favor of attempting to put his mind back together as they drove. Now that he was in the sunlight, surrounded by the familiar smells of a car and the flashing green of trees and grass, it seemed a lot easier. 

He remembered Aziraphale and the garden. He remembered Aziraphale and the Nazis. He remembered the end of the world that wasn’t and the Anti-Christ. He certainly remembered dying. And then...Was his name Wilbur? No, no, his name was Crowley, Anthony J. Formerly _Crawly_ , serpent of Eden. Crawly. What a name. He had been named by a fresh, innocent human who had called him a crawly thing. He wondered if Wiggly had been named similarly. 

He shook his head and got back to it. Most of the memories the demon could actively recall involved the angel Aziraphale. Where was Aziraphale, anyway? That was who had been missing when he was in the room. Had Aziraphale died? Crowley hoped not (though he did wish he had one some level, if only so they could be together, but Crowley viciously shoved that bit down). 

The car finally came to a halt, and the man in the driver’s seat got out. Crowley swung out behind him and followed. The demon wasn’t quite sure where he was supposed to be going, but this place felt right. And the man in front of him didn’t offer any protests, so he figured he was expected to follow. 

They went up to the fourth floor and down to a certain door that was unlocked by the man in front of him. They stepped inside, and Crowley found himself being questioned. 

“Not injured anywhere?” Injured? That was something he hadn’t even thought to check for. His hands first went to his stomach, where he could still imagine the searing pain of a flaming blade, but the skin wasn’t even tender. Then, he patted himself down, trying to identify if he had any aches and pains. There were none other than a bone weariness. 

“I believe I’m fine,” he muttered. That was a mistake, as seconds later he found himself being squeezed in a hug. Crowley gasped and could only focus on—this wasn’t Aziraphale. Someone that wasn’t Aziraphale was hugging him. The thought of that didn’t feel right. He didn’t like it. He squirmed and managed to wiggle out of the other man’s grasp, backing up slowly until there was a couch between them. 

This might have been a mistake, because the human seemed more concerned and began questioning him once more. Something wrong? Definitely. Was it this man’s fault—not really. Nothing was right. Crowley could hardly think straight—all he wanted was a nap—or maybe a vintage wine—and he just found himself babbling hysterically, “No, this isn't right! I'm not me! I mean, I am me, I'm just not the me you know! Who are—?” 

He looked closely at the other man, and finally focused on memories that he had been purposefully ignoring. He knew this man. His name was John McNamara, and he was definitely human and _not_ otherworldly. In other words, he wasn’t Aziraphale. Not that Crowley expected this man to be Aziraphale, he just didn’t expect to have been living with anyone else. His brain caught up to his memories. “Oh, shit we’ve—we’ve—” 

The man—John’s face—shut off and grew dark, and then the man—John—shouted, “Oh, so after two years of living together, you've finally decided that's it, then? Now you regret us being together, is that it?” 

Well, that was about the size of it, but something in his heart still panged at the sight of this man he didn’t know. This would be the time to explain that while Crowley remembered being Wilbur Cross for thirty years, thirty years seemed like a tiny blip—swamped by nearly seven thousand years’ worth of being a demon in love with an angel. 

“Yes—no! That's not exactly it, I'm just not me, I can't—everything is wrong—He said—he said—Black and White…gateway…gatekeeper…” 

He began rocking, trying to set his thoughts straight, and only got yelled at for the trouble. Crowley barely heard it as he tried to at least put the memories he could now remember in order. He looked up at John. 

“What year is it?” he asked. 

“What the hell kind of question is that?” John exclaimed. 

“What year is it?” Crowley growled, grabbing the human by the collar, his inner demon coming out. 

“2007!” John exclaimed, pulling himself from the man's grip. 

“2007…2007…damn, how in the world…?” The last thing he clearly remembered was 2941. 2007 had been...it had been before their headquarters’ attempt at Armageddon. That was—that was hundreds of years ago! That was back when Aziraphale had the bookshop. It had caught fire and burnt down entirely before Adam set it to rights. He had thought that Aziraphale was dead. He wondered how the angel was coping with his death. 

“But am I back in time or in an alternate dimension?” he breathed. 

He cut off suddenly, moving about the apartment, ransacking everything. He remembered enough to remember where things were that would help him get a hold on reality but tore through them in a manner that it might have not seemed that way. Heaven and Hell never really believed in alternate dimensions. Crowley, being one of two ethereal beings that kept up with humans, was definitely aware of multiverse theories. The only way he could figure out if he was in his own world or a separate one would be to look for certain information that he knew of from his own past. 

Over the next few days, Crowley did just that. He paced about the flat, rambling under his breath as he managed to finally set his mind straight. He went to work and acted like Wilbur—as if nothing was wrong. He could tell it unnerved his human, but had no way of dealing with the matter, so he left it alone. He tried to find his phone first to search some things and had lost it when he realized that they were before the era when smart phones were popular. 

After realizing that the phone option was out, he searched on the computer for key information. Was there an odd bubble around Tadfield? No. Was there a bookshop in London called AZ Fell and Co? No. Crowley had been there when the place was established in the 19th century. And now it wasn’t there. That was what confirmed it for him. That was all the prompting he needed to return to the Black and White. 

He wanted answers and had a feeling Wiggly was the only being he had met so far that might have them. Something wasn’t right about Wiggly, but Crowley had dealt with the devil (quite literally) for thousands of years. Crowley had fallen from heaven for simply asking questions. It wasn’t a leap that he would go back to some strange abomination for answers—and he didn’t even have the angel here to make his life worth living. 

Unfortunately, John McNamara got in the way of his plans of disappearing discreetly. He had gone to the car, ready to drive to Hatchetfield, and stopped short at the sight of John already sitting in the driver's seat. 

“Well, get in,” the human said. “I thought we were going to Hatchetfield.” 

“ _I_ was going to Hatchetfield,” Crowley disagreed. John ignored him, and instead put the car in gear and headed towards the highway. 

Once they were going, John asked, “Why exactly did you want to go there?” 

“I have to go back,” was the only response Crowley had. John felt a lot more real sitting here in this car than he had felt since Crowley had woken up. 

“You have to go back to _Hatchetfield_?” the human questioned incredulously. 

Crowley looked long and hard at John McNamara, remembering hours of drinking with the man. Remembering kissing him. His mind instantly went to Aziraphale. Crowley could have tried to have something with John, but ultimately it wouldn’t be fair to the human. Crowley would only ever be able to think of Aziraphale. “You really cared for hi— _me_ , didn't you?” 

“I still do,” John protested in confusion. They didn't say anything else for the rest of the trip. 

Crowley returned to the Black and White, leaving John McNamara behind and purposefully putting the man out of his mind. Wiggly did indeed have answers for him. Evidently, Wilbur Cross had entered the Black and White and had been in there just long enough to be discorporated, which was when Crowley had awakened. The only reason he had been able to return to earth at all was because Wiggly somehow had the ability to make Crowley able to have a corporation upon return to earth. It wasn’t a real corporation—more like a facsimile of one, which evidently, he could control the appearance of—but it was more solid than when Aziraphale had appeared before him during Armageddon. 

What Crowley took away, was that apparently, he had been reincarnated as a human and would have gone his entire feeble human life without knowing if it weren’t for the Black and White. He wasn’t sure if this was a blessing or a curse. 

In the end, Crowley worked for Wiggly in exchange for the information and the body—he was in the being’s debt, after all. The work wasn’t all that different from what he had done for six thousand years on earth. Because of that, he managed. It didn’t mean he liked it. In fact, Crowley thought he might have gone insane over the course of thirteen years. 

That was what made Crowley love Aziraphale even more. If he went nuts over the span of thirteen years doing what he had been doing for six thousand, obviously the angel had been the only thing keeping him afloat. 

......... 

The reason four-year-old Alexandra Foster had unnerved John McNamara was because he had seen that before. It was the reason he always had an interest in strange things. Things had always seemed to go right around him. As he grew up, little miracles would happen that no one could explain. And there was some small part of him that was just so good that sometimes it couldn't help bleeding into the world around him. 

Things happened less once he grew up, and when they did, they were way less pronounced and harder to notice. The man never knew why it was his life was like that until that fateful Black Friday when he exploded in a ray of light, quite literally smiting his lover. Unfortunately, when he first woke up, he was nowhere near coherent enough to appreciate the fact. 

The angel Aziraphale woke up surrounded by White. Much like Crowley, his mind was a jumbled mess, and the first thing he remembered was dying. He had died roughly five minutes after Crowley had. He distinctly remembered losing it once his partner had been stabbed and attempting to smite everyone in the room. The demons had gone flying, squealing and screaming—the works. The Angels stood there, regarding him with apathy. 

Aziraphale had then caught Crowley, sinking to the ground with the demon in his arms and had begun pleading tearfully, “Just hang on, dear. That's it. You'll be all right.” 

The Angels could have killed him while he was doing such, but they didn't. Only stared. Perhaps they decided to let him say goodbye to his only friend—though goodbye was the furthest from Aziraphale’s mind, who was unable to accept the thought of a world without Crowley. Crowley didn't say anything, seemingly unable to as he choked with wide eyes, looking up at the Angel. Then, his breath stopped, and his serpentine eyes kept staring. 

Aziraphale kept holding him, looking at him with wide eyes. Some part of him kept expecting the demon to leap to his feet and proclaim, “Just kidding!” No such thing happened. No. He couldn't be— _dead_. Crowley’s head slowly came to rest on the ground as Aziraphale's arms went slack. He stood up in a daze. 

“ _How dare you_ ,” was what blurted out of his mouth, almost of its own accord. 

“Now, Aziraphale—” 

And it was like a spell had broken. He charged forward and bodily tackled Gabriel to the ground. He scrabbled for purchase, his fists finding contact with the archangel’s face, stomach, whatever he could reach. Gabriel was letting out pained grunts, which were drowned out by Aziraphale's angry, tortured cries. 

“We didn't want it to come to this,” Michael said. Her sword went into Aziraphale’s shoulder, and the Angel rolled off of Gabriel, panting. Golden light began seeping out of the wound, and he clutched it in one hand. 

“Let it be known,” Michael said, grabbing Aziraphale’s sword off the ground and holding it above him, the point aimed at his chest. “That this is what befalls an Angel of the Lord who shirks his duty and goes against the call.” 

And with that, the flaming point came down, and everything became a blinding myriad of pain. 

The next thing that came to Aziraphale's mind was his exploding into light in the Black and White. He looked around, a hand fluttering to his chest, and then to his head where his fingers ran through short, blonde curls. There was nothing around him except a vast expanse of light. It didn't hurt his eyes, on the contrary the light was rather soothing—like breathing in the steam of a freshly brewed cup of tea, or golden light shining on a particularly old book. 

“Hello, Prin-ci-pality,” came a female, childlike voice amidst the nothingness. The angel turned around wildly and saw what seemed to be a giant spider. An enormous, widow-like, iridescent spider with saber-like _fangs_ , that glowed a resounding _purple_. 

“I am the Gatekeeper, Webby,” the spider said. “And I need your help, Prin-ci-pality.” 

“Where—what happened?” the angel groaned, a hand coming up to his head. 

“You died,” Webby replied. 

“What...?” Aziraphale asked, confused, “But—” 

“Two times,” Webby added. “You were reborn into a human body on an earth not your own. And then, just now, you were—I think you call it dis-corporate-d?” 

As Webby explained, Aziraphale found his memories flooding back. So, he _had_ died, then. And now, he was in some strange place that reminded him of an empty version of heaven. Slowly, he also remembered being John. And he remembered— 

“Wilbur came in here!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “And he— _I_ —cared for him. What happened to him?” 

“Not just yet,” Webby replied. “We have something to deal with first. Wiggly is trying to step out of his given bounds and take over a world—he must be stopped. I cannot tra-verse dimensions any easier than he can, so I need you to work on my behalf.” 

“Why me?” Aziraphale asked. “I’m just an angel—I never did any good at my job—not to mention that this isn’t my world. I can’t even tell you if this is my jurisdiction...” 

“Would it make you feel better if I tell you that the Al-mighty wills it?” Webby asked in a wry voice. 

“Not really,” Aziraphale shrugged. “I would assume you are trying to appeal to me in a manner that you expect to be convincing.” 

“I know you, Prin-ci-pality,” Webby said. She moved closer to him. Every time a leg touched down, a spot of light glowed, like a footprint. “And you never turn down an op-por-tunity to do good. You broke the laws of Heaven to prevent the world from ending because you like humans. Why don’t you do it for them?” 

The enormous entity reached the angel and put one leg up to his head. In his mind’s eye, he could see a young woman who was being choked. She was sobbing, fear written all over her eyes. 

“You’ve met her before,” Webby said. 

“What—” Aziraphale swallowed. “What’s her name?” 

“Alexandra Foster.” 

And he remembered. He remembered being John McNamara. He remembered sitting on a couch next to Wilbur, questioning a woman. He remembered trying to leave and being confronted by the serious, staring face of a little girl. He looked back at the vision Webby was feeding him. The little girl was not-quite grown up, and never would grow up if Wiggly ended the world. 

Webby was right. He would never turn down an opportunity to do good. 

“Go to her,” Webby said, knowing his change of heart. “I have given you the a-bility to travel there without needing a portal or a host body. You can choose to look like the angel or the man—both are you, after all.” 

Aziraphale looked down at his white robes, over his shoulder at his white wings, and thought hard. The wings tucked into his back, the white robes shrunk, grew tighter, and grew darker. Finally, he was dressed in a black uniform—what he had been wearing when he died (the second time). His gun was even there, and he knew it would still work. 

“I’m ready,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my Good Omens headcanons! The first one being that Eve named the freshly fallen demon Crawly, after his snake form. The second Good Omens headcanon being that Crowley fell in love with Aziraphale when he mentioned giving his sword away. I mean, it's hard not to believe that after watching a bunch of videos illuminating Crowley's heart eyes XD. Saw this really good meme that I would include if I could (I can't figure out how lol) But it pointed out that since Aziraphale is an angel, he can feel love and "he's still kind of shook that it only took him saying that he gave away his flaming sword for the biggest wave of love he's ever felt to start emanating from some random demon" and I can never unknow that. You're welcome, I'll be here all day. XD
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> If anyone predicted this outcome, you have to let me know! I figured by the beginning of this chapter, most avid theorists would be able to figure out where I was going with my story. And boy do I know that there are some verrrrry avid theorists when it comes to fanfiction XD  
> Next chapter is the last one. The plan is for this story to be the start of a series. I have already started on the sequel. Unfortunately, I haven't finished the first chapter of it yet. STILL I'm super excited for how it's turning out so far. This chapter laid down the foundation for the world that the series will be building on, so I'm very glad to have finally posted it, and given y'all some answers.
> 
> If you enjoyed, leave a comment and some kudos! Point out any mistakes that you notice and I will be more than happy to fix them. 
> 
> byeeeeeeeee


	6. Chapter 6

Once the Prophet, Linda, had finished with them, Lex was led by the crazy  balding man back to  Toyzone . Her hands were still  ziptied behind her back and Sherman Young was pushing her along, levelling the box cutter at her. Lex eyed it and wondered if it was the same one she had used to open the box of Wigglys that morning.  _ Man _ , that knife had gotten around.

They came to a halt at the checkout counter and Lex was pushed down onto the ground. The man holding her hostage sniveled, “End of the line, infidel. May your death throes echo through Drowsy Town to awaken the Wiggly One.”

“Come on, Sherman. It’s me, Lex!” Lex protested loudly, trying to break him out of whatever spell he was under. “I’ve seen you at  Toyzone every week for the last two years. Haven't I always helped you out?”

“You’re in retail,” Sherman Young hissed. “It’s your job to help me.”

“Well, it’s not my job to do favors,” she shook her head. “Who set aside those ponies so you could get them before the little girls they were made for?”

The little man looked at her reluctantly and scratched his head, muttering, “You.”

“Yeah,” Lex nodded, “and if you let me go, I’ll help you out again.”

Sherman drew closer to her and pressed the knife against her throat. “You have ponies?”

“If you let me loose, I’ll give you all the ponies your sick little heart desires,” the girl confirmed darkly.

The gross man chuckled crazily and hissed, “I don’t know if there are enough ponies in the world for that.”

“Well, there are some extras,” Lex floundered. “In the storeroom? We were supposed to ship them back because the colors were all mixed up.”

“One-of-a-kind  mis -paints? You better not be fucking with me.” This last statement was said in a low, threatening voice that still managed to be high pitched and wobbly at the same time. Lex swallowed.

“No!” she shook her head emphatically. “Not to a loyal customer!”

Sherman nodded to himself, pulling Lex to her feet and cutting the  ziptie with his knife. “Okay! Take me to the ponies, and then I’ll murder you later.” He nodded to himself some more, and moved to where he could follow her.

“Okay, oh, thank you Sherman!” Lex replied, her voice still high from fear and she swallowed it down. “Oh, and about those  mis -paints—” She let out a grunt as she kneed him in the groin, and then shouted over his fallen form, “I threw them in the fucking trash!”

With that, she made a break for it. Not deterred, Sherman began crawling after her, hissing, “When they mess up the colors, it makes them more valuable!” He grabbed her ankle and Lex, her momentum broken, came crashing to the ground. “Those are collector’s items! You killed the ponies, and now...” He pulled her up in a tight chokehold, the crook of his wiry little arm pressing into her trachea. “I’m—going to kill—you!”

He pulled back harshly, and suddenly; Lex couldn’t breathe. She gasped in for air—or tried to—but was blocked by the man’s arm. She choked, gagged, and sputtered. Spots began swimming in her vision and her chest constricted as her body involuntarily constricted as it tried to inhale. Her eyes grew wide, and her life flashed before her eyes. 

She was stuck in that moment, just before death, when every second feels like an eternity. Her mind was racing so fast, that in just a millisecond, she had enough time to wonder how her life had come to this—Was this it? Her to have lived her life only to be choked in a toy store? What a waste. Sure, this was the lot of life she had been born into, but she had always thought she would have been able to break away from the tragedy.

Not anymore. 

Lex had no delusions she would make it out of this. She was going to die, and Hannah was going to have to make it on her own—maybe, for all those years, ever since she had first laid eyes on the newborn baby, Lex had needed Hannah more than Hannah needed her.

Her chest constricted again, and she prayed to God—the gods—angels— _ somebody  _ for this nightmare to end already. For her to be greeted by blissful nothingness. It wasn’t to be. Instead, a voice interrupted her existential crisis.

“You’re not dead yet.”

It was like time had frozen. Lex looked up to see a man standing before her. He glowed about the edges, and if she had squinted hard enough, she might have seen the imprint of wings in the darkness. The man’s hair glowed white in the light—long and curly—and he looked at her with vivid blue eyes.

“W-w-what?” she sputtered in surprise, finding that she was able to breathe all of a sudden. Sherman Young was frozen behind her, his arm still around her throat. It was just that suddenly she didn’t need her throat to breathe.

“Alexandra Foster, my name’s General John McNamara and I’m going to help you through this,” the man before her said calmly. “First, you’re going to need to subdue your assailant.” He pointed a gun at her before flipping it in his hand and holding it out to her. “I’m authorizing you to use my firearm.”

Lex stretched out an arm, but couldn’t make it to the man or the gun, held down as she was. She blinked and reached, and cried out, “I can’t reach it!”

“Yes, you can,” he told her firmly. “Your sister has a power, and so do you. Reach into the Black and White and manifest this weapon in your reality.”

As he began speaking once more, she continued to try to grab it with her hand, her eyes were wide and panicked. The man regarded her softly, and said, “Look me in the eyes, now, Lex—and make a solemn vow to become your best self now. The time has arrived now, Lex. When your Friday’s Black, it’s time to lead the pack.”

She tried and tried, but couldn’t reach it, and found her eyes closing as her face screwed up in concentration. As she did, the man continued, “I can show you the path, but only you can walk it! If Wiggly is birthed, who knows what we’ve unlocked. Time has run out! What will you  _ doooooooo _ —?

His shouting voice blended into Sherman’s until finally she was back, awake and aware as Sherman held her in shaking arms. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe once more.

—“ IIIIIIIIIIIIII’m going to kill you!” Sherman shouted. Lex bucked in his arms and he staggered, dropping her. The girl fell to the floor and quickly rolled over, squeezing the thing she held in both hands. It was a gun. A gunshot rang out as Sherman Young clutched his midsection, and gasped, "Where—did that—come...from?”

“Nice shot, Lex,” a voice said as the balding man fell to the floor. She turned to see the man from before, standing before her. This time, he looked as real as day. She looked at the gun in her hands in surprise and then back up at him. He stood by the shelves and regarded her, saying, “But we’re not through yet. The leaders of your world are lost and helpless. You’ve been called to serve. If you can defeat Wiggly here in Hatchetfield, he can be defeated anywhere.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Lex asked. She got to her feet. 

“Gather your forces,” came the reply. “There is a warrior of light trapped in a deep sleep. Wake the warrior, kill the prophet...save the world.” He gave her a solemn look, and then raised a hand up to his forehead in salute. “You’re a PEIP now, Lex. Get ’ er done.”

The man looked upwards, blinking, and then disappeared in a ray of light, leaving Lex feeling very, very alone. She didn’t know where her sister was. She didn’t know who all was left in the mall, what state they were in, or if any of them were still outside  Wiggly’s influence. So, the girl did the only thing she could do—she walked. 

She left  Toyzone and wandered through the mall, skirting the walls and staying in the shadows. The members of  Wiggly’s cult were still around and she froze every time one ran past her. They didn’t peer deeply enough into the dark gloom hugging the walls to notice her. She had made it near the front door to the mall when she stumbled upon Tom Houston.

The light of the moon was shining through the glass doors, illuminating the man’s curls and his flannel shirt. He was standing in front of the doors, staring with wide eyes, and muttering (as though he had just realized), “I hope they didn’t tow my car.” There was a Wiggly doll in his hand, and he looked down at it. “That would be just my luck.”

“Mr. Houston!” Lex exclaimed before the man could leave. She pulled up the gun and aimed it at him, her fingers adjusting and readjusting themselves as she stood there.

“Leave me alone!” he called without even turning around. His shoulders were tense, and he was clutching the Wiggly tightly.

“Mr. Houston turn around!” Lex called, her  figers twitching around the gun. Tom Houston turned around and fixed her with an incredulous stare.

“What, are you  gonna shoot me, Lex?” he asked, unbelieving. “Or can I go home? I’ve had a shitty day—I'd appreciate it if you got that goddamn gun  outta my face!”

Lex didn’t lower the gun. Her fingers readjusted themselves again, and she said firmly, “Mr. Houston, I need your help, but I need you to put down that doll.”

“Why would I put it down?” he shouted. “You only want it for yourself.”

“No, I don’t!” she disagreed, shifting her feet. She still had the gun aimed at him.

“Too bad, Lex!” Mr. Houston cried. “I’m  leavin ’ and I’m taking this doll home to my son!”

Lex shook her head and called out again before he could leave, “He doesn’t want it!”

Tom Houston halted, paused, and then said, facing the doors, “Course he does! He wants it more than anything!”

“No, he doesn’t!” Lex dissented. “Think about it. Did Tim ever say he wanted a Tickle-me-Wiggly?”

Tom Houston froze. His mind was attempting to work through the fog of whatever was corrupting him. He tried to explain it away, as only adults can, “Well, he must have! We were  tryin ’ to win one at...Pizza Pete’s...weren’t we? No, he said it this morning. Why else would he—” He turned back to her and his face twisted horribly. “I know that he wants it!”

“Well, let me tell you something that  _ I  _ know,” Lex said calmly. “I’ve been working at  Toyzone since I was sixteen. I know what kids want. When that Wiggly campaign came out, you know how many kids got asked about it?  _ None _ . Think about that line you stood in this morning! Did you see a single kid there?”

“It’s a school day!” the teacher exclaimed.

“It’s Thanksgiving break!” Lex shouted in return. The man opposite her froze. “The thing about Wiggly that nobody’s talking about it...Kids don’t want that piece of shit!”

“What?” he asked dangerously, his face twisting again.

“They’re all into  Fortnite , dude!” Lex shouted. “I mean, my sister Hannah couldn’t get further away from that thing. Yeah, me and Ethan wanted a doll— _ to sell _ . Whatever spell that doll casts, it doesn’t work on kids! And I think I know why.” 

She cleared her throat and lowered the gun, looking at him sadly. “Mr. Houston, I know your wife died, and you’re trying to make it up to your son. But that’s something you want, not your son. You think Wiggly can fix this whole, but he can’t. It’s a trick.”

She continued, basically word vomiting at this point. Her eyes were wild as her mind worked, figuring out this whole thing.

“That’s how he works—he promises to fix all the holes, but he doesn’t!” she exclaimed. “And that’s why it works on adults. Because you guys have more holes. You need more things, and you need it harder! You  gotta worry about your loveless marriage, or the kids that are  gonna hate you, or your endless mortgage. I mean, you’re like forty—you probably think your life is over! I don’t,” she brightened. “I'm  gonna be an actress! Do you get what I'm saying, Mr. Houston?” 

She shook herself, getting back to the point. She could tell she had broken through to the man, for he was finally regarding her with a human face. “Wiggly is a fucking lie, and I think you know it. But I think you’re scared, because if he’s not  gonna fill that hole...what is?”

Tom Houston stared at the Wiggly for a very long time. His eyebrows drew down, his eyes brightened, and then he growled, “You’re not that cute, are you? In fact, you’re real fuckin’ ugly.” He threw the doll onto the ground, like a rapper dropping the mic, and looked up at his former student. His face was alight with wonder, and he breathed, “He's gone. Lex, I think I’m awake—But your sister! And Becky, they took them.”

“To Linda!” Lex nodded, knowing where this was going. The same thing had happened to her, after all. “She’s  gonna kill them if she—”

Mr. Houston moved closer to her, cutting her off, and exclaimed confidently, “No, she won’t! We won’t let her! Here,” he reached out and took the gun from her hand gently, muttering, “you’re  holdin ’ that wrong...”

The man cocked the gun and then held it up with one hand, a single finger resting on the trigger. He looked over at her with a cocky smirk, and nodded towards the depths of the mall.

“ Aight , let’s go,” he told her.

“ _ Fuck yeah! _ ” Lex proclaimed excitedly, happy to have her teacher back.

.........

“Yes, Gerald, I’m about to get the doll. Yes, they found the child. No, I’m not going to  put you on speaker. No one wants to talk to you!”

Hannah, while restrained by the mall crazies, looked at the unstable woman who was controlling the scene. The woman who kept alternating between shouting into her phone and speaking gracefully to her followers.

She looked down upon them and called out in a heavenly tone, “Yes. Bring the heretics to me.” Hannah struggled and kicked once more, but it was no use.

She and the woman who had chased her were dragged forward. Linda Monroe seemed to recognize the  red-haired woman. She sauntered her way down the escalators, calling to the unconscious redhead as she moved, “Becky Barnes! Why am I not surprised? Of course, I would find you here, clinging to your antiquated sense of justice. Protecting this child, because you can’t have any of your own?!”

The blonde woman seemed to realize that her victim was unconscious for she leaned over the railing of the stationary escalator and snapped, “Becky! Wake up! Belittling you isn’t fun if you're not upset.” Her face fell flat and contemplative, and then she smirked. “Huh. She’s drunk. Again. The only man who'll have her now is...Jack Daniels! HA!” Linda threw her head back dramatically and then waved to her stooges. “Get her out of my sight.”

Becky was dragged by a pair of men away from the pit and towards the shadows that wrapped around the entrance to the nail salon. With that, the blonde woman finally came the rest of the way down the escalator and came to a halt in front of Hannah. 

“And you!” she exclaimed. “You little shit. For too long you have kept this shepherd from his flock.”

The townie that had been holding her let go, and Linda Monroe pushed Hannah to the ground, where she landed on her knees. Hannah cried out in fear, tears pooling in her eyes. A lump formed in her throat as she thought of Ethan and gripped the hat he had bestowed on her tightly with both hands. “Magic hat!” the girl cried. “Nothing can hurt me!”

“You little fool!” Linda shrieked. She ripped the hat off of Hannah’s head with little effort. Hannah’s hands remained on her head and she rocked slightly, choking back her tears. 

“You think this is going to protect you?” continued Linda. “ _ A magic hat! _ That’s ridiculous. Only  _ dolls  _ are magic. And I’ll be taking mine, thank you very much!” 

The woman pulled the bag off of Hannah’s back and walked a few feet over to open it. She unzipped it, only to find it empty—seeing as that mean man had stolen the doll from Hannah earlier, when she was trying to help him. Linda pawed at the backpack frantically, and then looked up at the girl with murder in her eyes.

“What? It’s this some kind of a  joooooke ?” she asked quietly, her voice wavering on the word ‘joke’. Hannah looked at her coldly. The woman threw the bag onto the ground and made her way back to Hannah, pulling something out of her pocket and yelling, “Where is he?!  _ Answer me! _ Or I’ll open your  _ mouth  _ with my  _ fucking knife! _ ”

Hannah looked away from the woman, her jaw set. Then, another voice caused her head to startle. 

“ _ Hey _ !” Hannah’s head shot up to look at her sister, who had just emerged from the entryway to the mall. She was holding something green and fuzzy into the air like a banner. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

All of the people gathered around Hannah looked up at the Wiggly doll. Linda Monroe shot Hannah a look and muttered, “I haven’t changed my mind, little girl. I still want you dead.”

With that done, the woman sauntered back up the escalator and squealed, “HAHA! And I thought your sister was stupid! Walking into the lion’s den completely outnumbered— _ WITH _ A  _ DOLL _ ? You’re a  _ fucking moron _ .”

“And you’ve been outfoxed by a fucking moron,” said Tom Houston, emerging from the shadows that surrounded the door to Marshalls. He was holding up a gun, and pointing it at Linda’s head. “Back off! Let the kid go!”

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” Linda breathed. She almost looked scared.

At seeing that the prophet was restrained, Lex fought her way through the crowd. 

“Lex!” Hannah cried, throwing herself at her sister, who grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the crowd and towards the escalators.

“Everyone, listen to me!” Lex shouted, holding the doll up once more. “This doll is not your god! It’s not  gonna fix your miserable lives! This cult of comfort is bullshit! If Wiggly is your god, then let him stop me from doing this.”

Lex let go of Hannah, who hugged herself tightly. Her big sister then backed up until she was a couple of steps onto the dead escalators and pulled out her cigarette lighter. The teen held the lighter underneath the toy and sparked a flame. It licked at the Wiggly, and Hannah felt a spark of hope flickering with it in the pit her stomach.

The hope was extinguished at the sound of hysterical screaming. Above, Linda Monroe was screaming at the sight of the flame burning beneath the Wiggly. She quickly ducked under Mr. Houston’s arm, grabbing his wrist and twisting it. Mr. Houston let out a pained grunt and dropped the gun. Linda, still screaming, pushed him away from her and moved to the escalator. She paused, and then began screaming once more as she stomped down the steps, grabbed the Wiggly, and pushed Lex onto the ground.

The prophet was shunted into the crowd, a path being made for her as she held the Wiggly high. 

“I have the Wiggly!” Linda called. While they were occupied, Tom slipped down to the first floor to join Lex and Hannah, who backed into the shadows. “And I can hear his voice now more clearly than ever! Now, all we have to do is build a portal for the one high god—Wiggly!”

“Hey!” a voice behind them called out.

Linda whipped around to see a redhead standing at the top of the escalators, a gun in her hand. The mother laughed and cried out, “Becky Barnes! You pathetic worm! You think you can stop the birth of a god? You couldn’t even stand up to your disgusting husband. Look at you! You’re paralyzed with fear!”

“No,” Becky said quietly, her voice shaking. Her eyes were focused above the barrel of the gun. The young woman stood there, arms outstretched, unmoving. “I’m just lining up my shot.”

A gunshot rang out and Linda fell to the ground. A wound was seeping in her forehead. The crowd swarmed around her, moaning. 

Meanwhile, Becky moved to the others. “Tom are you all right?” she asked as Tom was wrapping his arms around the two girls. “Girls?”

Hannah wasn’t sure how she felt about this—this man had tried to catch her and threatened to beat her up earlier, after all. But he had been under  Wiggly’s spell, and it was evident that was broken now. It felt nice being wrapped up in someone’s arms. It was something Hannah had never experienced outside of Lex. She had never had a dad. 

As Tom Houston said, “All right now let’s get the hell out of here,” Hannah thought it might be nice to have a dad. Mr. Houston moved to pull them to the doors, but Lex slipped out of the group, grabbed the Wiggly from where it had been dropped, and advanced on the crowd that had begun to carry Linda off somewhere.

“You have two choices,” Lex said firmly, pulling out her lighter once more. “Abandon your god...or burn here with him.”

She paused long enough for the flames to catch on the Wiggly, and then threw it onto the ground. Tom pulled Hannah away, telling her not to look, just as people began grabbing the ball of flames that the doll had become. The four of them rushed outside, heading to where Tom had parked his car. It had been towed after all, leaving them standing in an empty loading bay. The group backed away from the mall trying to figure out what to do.

Becky had been dropped off that morning by her coworker—it was why she was still in scrubs when she arrived in line. Ethan’s old jalopy was around here somewhere, but the keys were inside with him.

“I can go get them,” Lex offered, turning back to the mall. Hannah turned to look as well—she could see flames within the mall. It didn’t look safe.

Mr. Houston must have come to the same conclusion, for he grabbed her sister around the middle before she could try to find her boyfriend, and said, “You can’t go back in there! The place is on fire!”

There was a bang as windows shattered from the heat, and the flames surged outwards at the influx of oxygen. The whole building was now engulfed in flames.

“The whole mall’s coming down,” Becky breathed, staring at the mall. They all were staring, their faces lit by the warm, orange glow of the raging fire. It was entrancing—like trying to look away from a train wreck. Bits of the roof were now caving in with crashes and more flames.

“Good,” Lex snorted.

Now Hatchetfield was going to have two ghost malls, Hannah mused. Though, she had a feeling that once the fire was gone there wouldn’t be enough left to tell that this was once a building. They stood there watching the fire for a while, with no way of going home. Hannah didn’t know what was home anymore. They had lost the Wiggly, therefore the money to California, but Hannah knew that neither she nor Lex wanted to go home after they had gotten their hopes up so high.

A ray of light and the sound of car doors slamming interrupted her detached musings, and Hannah turned to see a thin young woman with mousy brown hair rushing up to them. She was silhouetted by the headlights of a car that had pulled up behind them. A man followed behind her. He was wearing a Christmas sweater and had brown hair that was sliding down into his face from a neat part.

“Tom?” the woman called, moving over to Mr. Houston. “Tom! Oh my God, you’re alive!”

Mr. Houston turned, embracing the woman. “Emma?” he asked in a dazed tone. “Pat?”

“Paul,” the strange man corrected.

“Yeah,” Mr. Houston dismissed. “What are you guys doing here? Where’s Tim?”

“He’s in the car,” Emma assured him. “He’s fine.”

“We saw what happened to Lakeside on the news,” Paul told them hurriedly. Both he and the woman looked panicked.

“Yeah, and it's not just  Hatchetfied ,” Emma nodded. “The whole world has gone crazy.”

“Somebody nuked Moscow!” Paul cut in; his eyes wide. The other four, disheveled from the long day, stared at him in uncomprehending disbelief. “The news is saying that this might be World War III—until the news went out.”

“We were sure you were gone,” Emma continued. “We were  gonna take Tim, get out of town, but...he wouldn’t let us. All he wanted was you.”

Tom looked at his sister-in-law for a long moment, and then said, “Emma, I've been avoiding him too long. I think it’s time we finally sit down as a family and talk about Jane.”

“That sounds great Tom,” Emma nodded hurriedly. “Let’s talk on the move.”

“Well where can we go? Is any place safe?” Becky asked.

Emma paused to think, and then said slowly, “You know, I have this kooky, reclusive biology professor that—Well, he lives on the edge of town.” As she spoke, she sped up excitedly. “His whole house is like a panic room. We could go there.”

“That’s a great idea, Emma,” Mr. Houston agreed. Hannah hunched slightly, sure that she and her sister weren’t including in these plans. Lex wrapped her arm around her sister and squeezed her shoulders reassuringly.

“Hope he doesn’t mind us showing up unannounced,” Paul interrupted once more. “We can’t call him, the phones stopped working. I don’t even know what time it is! What am I supposed to do without my iPhone?”

“Wear a watch?” Hannah finally interjected, her voice a lot firmer than she felt.

Mr. Houston looked down at his own watch, and then said, “It’s 11:57. Black Friday’s almost over. I feel like if we can survive today, we can survive anything.

Hannah glanced over at the burning building one last time as Lex began to guide her towards the car. Her vision was swamped with the image of a burning, barren waste land. She blinked, and it was gone. What was Webby trying to tell her now?

_ Tomorrow will come _ —

— _ Tomorrow won’t come... _

“What if tomorrow doesn’t come?” she asked. The group drew to a halt and looked at her.

“Of course, tomorrow is going to come,” Mr. Houston said reassuringly. He looked back down at his watch. 

The others gathered around as Becky peered over his shoulder and added, “Only fifteen seconds left.”

Webby’s voice was bouncing around Hannah’s head. Something was coming, and it was hard to tell what. Hannah could feel that even Webby was unsure. She could feel something welling up in her mind, just out of reach, something important. 

“Nine.”

_ Tomorrow breaks the dawn _ —

What if tomorrow  _ does  _ come? What do they do, then? The reality of the situation hadn’t had time to sink into any of them, but Hannah knew thing’s couldn’t just go back to the way they had been before.

“Seven.”

Could they?

— _ No one to stay... _

“Five.”

Then,  Webby’s voice came loud and clear. She had locked onto a path, and was determined to give out one last hint. 

_ THE FIRE COMES! _

“Three—”

_ FIND THE GATE’S GUARD _ —

“Two—”

Hannah looked up and saw something on the horizon. It almost looked like the sun was rising. Her eyes widened, and she started, “What if tomorrow—?”

.........

After he left Lex, Aziraphale didn’t quite want to go back to the Black and White.  Webby had given him the ability to move about the earth, so by Heaven— _ he was going to move about the earth _ . His love for earth was what had first gotten him into this mess after all. No reason to stop now.

He reappeared on a bench in Hatchetfield. He hadn’t wanted to go far—who knew what range Webby had? He didn’t know if he’d be able to leave Hatchetfield at all. Aziraphale was in a square, he found as he looked about. It was dingy and there was trash on the ground, and the whole place had this small-town look to it, but the not-quite angel had this strange feeling of peace that was still encompassing him, even now. 

As he sat there, he continued thinking about everything. It was the simple kind of thinking one does when they are relaxed. He wondered about the fact that he had died, pondered about what happened to Crowley, and realized that Webby had never told him about Wilbur. What had happened to Wilbur? He had gone mad and started going by a different name? Became a stooge for Wiggly? The not-quite angel felt like something was urging him, like there was something he ought to realize, but hadn’t yet. 

“This seat taken?” a voice interrupted.

Aziraphale didn’t look up. 

“No,” he said shortly, staring at the masonry beneath his feet. 

The man sat next to him and fidgeted impatiently, as if wanting attention. Aziraphale was still too caught up in his thoughts to pay him attention, despite noticing the fidgeting. Finally, a familiar voice asked, “Angel?”

Aziraphale looked up to see Wilbur sitting next to him. There was no trace of madness as he looked at him, just an overwhelming sense of relief. His stomach flipped. Only one being had ever called him by that nickname.

“Crowley?” he breathed, not sure if he should believe it or not. 

Wilbur’s face smiled at him in response.

“Is that you? You’ve been Wilbur all along?”

“ Wellll , not technically,” Crowley said with Wilbur’s voice, slumping as far as the human body would allow. “I woke up—”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, “It was when you went into the Black and White, wasn’t it?!”

“Yeah,” Crowley nodded. 

“Can you tell me what going on?” Aziraphale asked after a moment. 

“Some of it,” Crowley shrugged. “I’m not quite sure about everything myself.”

“What happened after I  discorporated ?” Aziraphale asked without a beat.

“You took on your full angelic form,” Crowley said slowly. He squirmed slightly, wincing as he said, “Gave me a right good smiting on accident, I think.”

“Oh, I am so sorry, my dear.”

“ Nahh ,” Crowley shook his head. “I’m fine. Really, angel. Anyway. Wiggly used the president’s appearance as a power play—the president tried to send your—well, McNamara’s—nuke into the Black and White and Wiggly sent it back out through Russia’s portal in Moscow.”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale breathed.

Crowley nodded in agreement. “Yeah. So, this whole world’s really in for it at this point.”

“I have people that should be stopping Wiggly any moment now,” Aziraphale said hopefully.

“I’m afraid it won’t make much of a difference,” Crowley said solemnly. “Wiggly may have lost, but—well,  _ everyone  _ lost this one.”

They fell into contemplative silence. Aziraphale swallowed, and finally dredged up the courage to as the one question that was most important to him.

“Why did you go back to the Black and White?”

Crowley swallowed and stared at him for a long time. “Because I thought you were gone to me forever,” he finally choked out. “I couldn’t just—I couldn’t just keep living as some human at the thought of...well...” He blinked furiously in the dark. 

“So, you went to work for  _ Wiggly _ ?”

Crowley shrugged, seeming to shake himself out of his emotional reverie. “He was who I met right after I woke up. He was the only being who could explain what happened.”

“That we died and were reborn, and being  discorporated was the only thing that could wake us up?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah, that was the sum of it.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, that’s what Webby said too.”

“You met Webby, then?” Crowley asked, tilting his head to look at his companion. He received a nod, and the not-quite demon let out a great sigh and slumped some more. “So, we’re on opposite sides as usual, then.”

“Of course, we’re not!” Aziraphale protested, turning to look at him incredulously. “We’re on  _ our  _ side.”

Crowley—Wilbur's face lit up like a Christmas tree. Who knew that all it took was a few centuries, deaths, and  reawakenings to have his angel using his own words back at him. 

“Angel—” Crowley began. He was cut off by Aziraphale, who turned his head away and suddenly paid strong attention to the trees that hedged in Hatchetfield.

“What—?”

“No, seriously, Aziraphale—” Crowley attempted to say.

“No, really Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, grabbing his knee and shaking it frantically. “Look!”

Just behind the trees, the horizon was hidden. Light was spilling up from that point, like a sunrise come many hours too early. It was the dead of the night, so the only thing lighting up the sky could be unnatural. There was the sound of sky ripping flames as the pair saw what was the cause of the disturbance—it appeared to be a missile. There was a small dark shape silhouetted against the light. 

Neither of them spoke. Aziraphale’s hand found Crowley’s, who squeezed hard in reciprocation. Seconds later, the missile hit. If one had been there to describe what it was like, it might have consisted of a sudden flash of light, an ear-splitting crash, and the sudden rushing of wind amidst sudden blindness. Unfortunately, anyone who could tell the tale were rather entirely dead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END
> 
> There you have it. The last chapter of Into the Black and White. I do intend on having this be a series--I have most of the next chapter written. Unfortunately, however, I have not finished it. So, I plan on taking a hiatus on the series for a little while. When I post the next installment, I will probably make an announcement on this story.
> 
> Let me know what you think, what you liked, that sort of thing ;)   
> Otherwise, goodbye for now. See y'all on the flipside.


End file.
